


Not Yours

by Sorted



Series: Dorian Pavus Cannot Be Troped [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull endgame, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Arguing, Break Up, Fate & Destiny, Fucking Up, Imperfect People, M/M, Philosophy, Sex, Slavery, Social Order, sexual mishap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-06 08:07:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20503646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorted/pseuds/Sorted
Summary: Everyone wants to find their soulmate; everyone wants to live happily ever after.But Dorian Pavus is not an "everyman" character.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So like...probably don't read this? This was meant to be similar to the previous story in the series (and I think I'm using the series thing wrong, because they're actually stand-alones) in length and tone and all. But then it...got long, and turned into this weird mess of philosophy and porn that took over the structure and if I had more integrity I'd re-edit the crap out of this and cut it the fuck DOWN at least, what is all this anyway, but I have too many writing projects open right now to indulge my perfectionism. So. Gonna just be done with this one.

Dorian’s introduction to the Inquisition was a bit much to take in all at once—not even counting the Rift and all the demons.

“Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

“Watch yourself. The pretty ones are always the worst.”

“Minrathous? As in, Tevinter? Are you from Tevinter?”

Disregarding the sullen—_and massive, oh Maker_—qunari in favor of the wide-eyed and suddenly very excited man who was clearly the Herald of Andraste, Dorian cordially replied, “Oh yes. A mage of Tevinter, in fact, but not, in case you were wondering, a member of the Magisterium.”

Before he could continue: “Do you speak Tevene? And can you read it?”

This all seemed painfully off-topic, and with a glance at the Herald’s companions, Dorian was sure of it—no one seemed to know what to make of this sudden curiosity. The qunari looked unruffled, but Dorian had a suspicion already that this was due to the usual set of his bovine face, rather than any foreknowledge of what the Herald was excited about.

“Naturally,” he smiled. “Tevene is my first language, and I can speak and write it fluently.” He managed to contain his surprise over the question and act gracefully. He was also just preparing to ask why it was such a point of interest when Felix appeared, and the far more vital matter of Alexius and his miserable cult took precedence in the conversation.

They discussed time magic and the Venatori and many other things of monumental importance to the world with a monumentally important and—Dorian couldn’t help but notice—quite handsome man, all while that huge qunari warrior stood sentry and listened. Dorian did a magnificent job of keeping his attention on the Herald, if he did say so himself, though he had to admit that huge, naked chest of the qunari’s affected him pretty badly. Felix was going to notice and ask about all this later, he was sure.

As he made to slip away and disappear, the Herald scooted closer, briefly. In low tones, he said, “I’ll be back. I promise you. And I’ve something I’d like to ask you as soon as possible, if I may.”

“I’m at your service, Herald,” Dorian replied, startled anew by the intense question—but, after all, very glad to hear that the Herald of Andraste meant to act on this matter.

\--

They met again in Haven, and again in Redcliff, and even managed to get thrown into the future without the matter resurfacing. Part of the problem was the number of highly important matters clamoring for the Herald’s attention. Partly it seemed that the Herald, Trevelyan, had calmed down on the subject a bit, once he was certain of meeting Dorian again and having a chance to talk to him—at some point.

So, when Dorian officially joined the Inquisition, matters still stood very much as they had from the beginning—he didn’t know why the Herald was so interested in Tevinter, but he would probably find out at some point. He hoped he would also find out a little more about The Iron Bull, as the fellow called himself—the massive Vashoth mercenary Dorian could so easily picture after their first meeting—in all his shirtless glory.

“Oh my,” he commented, on the way back to Haven from Redcliff, from the future, from a disaster that somehow ended in a successful alliance with the mage rebellion, “do you have a soul mark?”

The Bull glanced at him, shrugged, and said, “Yeah, looks like it.”

The writing across his bicep was in Trade. “Do you know who ‘Karaas Adaar’ is?” he asked. Not that he was curious. Why should it matter, after all?

“No idea,” The Bull shrugged again—and Dorian noted that every time he did that, not only did it emphasize the shoulders, but all the muscles of his back shifted in a way that highlighted their definition nicely.

“Another Vashoth, perhaps?” he guessed, idly. “Considering that it’s not written in Qunlat?”

The big, hulking giant looked at him closely for a moment, though his expression didn’t shift. He seemed to pick up on something. “‘Another’ Vashoth?”

“Well, it would be an unusual name for a human, elf, or dwarf, wouldn’t it?”

The huge fellow chuckled. “Hate to bust that bubble, Vint, but I’m not Vashoth. Surprised Trevelyan didn’t tell you yet. I’m Qunari. Ben-Hassrath, actually.”

Well. That was the end of _that_ conversation.

\--

And then he joined, and Maxwell Trevelyan, the handsome fellow, pulled him aside almost immediately.

“Listen, welcome to the Inquisition, I’m really delighted and all that, but could you do me a favor some time?”

“I’d be happy to help you in any way, Herald,” he answered graciously, with a bow.

A grin. “Thanks! Okay, listen…” A deep breath, and a big smile, and a secretive whisper: “I’ve got a soul mark.”

“Truly? Congratulations.” Dorian wasn’t sure of the purpose for the whispering, but he supposed the Herald was keeping it a secret for some reason?

A bright smile. “You know what they are? You have those, in Tevinter?”

He laughed breezily. “Well, we have them, yes, though people of my social set rarely deal in them. The common folk put a lot of stock in them, however, as I understand it.”

This seemed to strike Trevelyan as most interesting. “Common folk, is it? Hmmm. Well, anyway.” His grin returned. “Listen. I’ve never had one before, but just in the last month, I got a soul mark! And I wanted to ask you about it, because it’s apparently written in Tevene. No one can read it, and I haven’t had a chance, with all that’s been happening…” Dorian could imagine. “Anyway. If I show it to you some time, do you think you could tell me what her name is?”

Genteel and obliging, Dorian smiled. “My Lord Herald, I would be happy to assist you. But I think your spymaster has something rather pressing on her mind at the moment…” He pointed to the redheaded woman who was approaching, with a gait both purposeful and also stealthy. Dorian had no wish to interpose himself between her and her object—the Herald—having once seen how terrifying she could be. In the future.

So they left it. The handsome Herald took some of his other fellows out to the Hinterlands, and Dorian remained in the bitterly cold little town of Haven—unwillingly occupying the same former-goods-shop-turned-bunkhouse as the Ben-Hassrath spy. It couldn’t be helped—there were precious few places to sleep that were not out in the open.

He spent as little time as possible in the company of the spy—duly cautious, after all, of such a dangerous companion. And duly attempting to banish the brute’s physique from his mind.

But, of course, there was only one place to eat, and they had to run into each other a few times. And of course, when the Singing Maiden was crowded, no one would join Dorian at his table—thus, the only open seat in the house was the one opposite Dorian when The Bull came in for dinner.

“You mind?”

He smiled far, far up at the giant. “Certainly not, be my guest. Spy all you like, I’ve plenty of practice in keeping my secrets.”

The big oaf sighed a little, like Dorian was being predictable, but he put on an amiable face and sat down. “The boss should be back tomorrow,” he said, “and I hear the mages are ready to take on the Breach.”

“They are, as far as I can tell,” Dorian agreed.

“Weren’t you working with them?”

He smiled. “My assistance was judged unnecessary.”

“Mmm. That’s tough.”

Dorian felt that the pause after this was awkward, so he attempted to change the subject. “I must say, I’m surprised to meet a Ben-Hassrath with a soul mark. I thought the Qun was explicitly against them.”

The Bull’s manner seemed to close off a little. “It is.”

“Have you had it long?”

“Not really.”

Making the spy uncomfortable cheered Dorian considerably. “Well, what do your superiors think? You can hardly keep it a secret; it’s right on your arm.” _Don’t stare at his arm._

“They haven’t said anything,” The Bull sighed. “They’ve probably got another Ben-Hassrath watching me, and they’ll decide what to do about the soulmate based on how I react to him if I ever meet him. Until then, it’s ‘wait and see,’ I guess.”

“Ah.” Then, blinking: “_Him?_ Is Kaaras a male name?”

The Bull shrugged. “Never met a woman called that. But I guess it could be either. If it’s really a Vashoth, even more likely—they like to use Qunlat words and names, but those born outside the Qun often apply them wrong. They barely speak it as a second language; they mess up context a lot.”

Dorian examined the qunari. He’d been wrong about that face—it wasn’t bovine at all, really. It was a bit draconic, though. And that distractingly bare chest… “You don’t object to the idea of your soulmate being male?”

The Bull chewed and swallowed a mouthful of bread before answering—studying Dorian in return. “Nah. I mean, the problem is having a soulmate in the first place. Male or female doesn’t matter to me.” He winked with his one, unpatched eye. “Thought everyone had heard that by now.”

Dorian refrained from gulping. A good spy would notice. “I’m not privy to most rumors.”

“Shame,” The Bull shrugged. “I’ve heard a few about _you._”

“I’m shocked,” he flatly answered. “For the record, you may discount all rumors of my evil magical practices as blatantly false.”

“Yeah, there have been a few of those. I already know you’re not a blood mage, though.” He pointed at the arm Dorian wore no sleeve on. “No scars. You’re right-handed, and that’s your left arm. If you wore only one sleeve and had scars to cover, it would be that arm instead.”

Dorian refrained from blinking in surprise. “Clever you.”

“I wasn’t talking about rumors like that, obvious lies. But you have no interest in women—that’s clear to a lot of people. And there’s been some speculation around that subject.” Before Dorian could say it, he added, “Also mostly wrong, and made up. Southerners don’t know much about the Imperium, so I just come up with my own theories.”

“I shudder to imagine what those might be,” Dorian commented blandly. He didn’t particularly expect an answer, and if The Bull _did_ feel like sharing, Dorian was fairly sure anything the Ben-Hassrath said would be a lie.

“Just guesses.” The Bull mopped gravy with his bread. “House Pavus is known to be politically moderate, but that doesn’t mean your preference for men would be tolerated at home. You’re not old enough yet for it to be weird that you’re not married, but as a sole heir, you should have been betrothed five years ago, at the latest. So either you have a fiancée back home, or you don’t.” He glanced at Dorian. “I’m going with ‘you don’t.’”

He arched an eyebrow. “Your reason?”

A crooked grin. “Gut feeling.” Dorian hummed, elegantly cutting his meat with a pathetic excuse for a knife, and neither confirmed nor denied the spy’s gut feeling. The spy didn’t seem bothered. “So my guess is, you’re here in the South because some shit hit the ceiling with your family at some point.”

Placid as a mountain lake, Dorian continued eating. “You’re welcome to write to Par Vollen and ask them if you’re right. I’m certain the Ben-Hassrath have enough spies within the Imperium to assemble an impressive volume of gossip.”

“Guess so,” The Bull shrugged. “Don’t think I need to, though.”

“Oh?”

“I would have,” he explained. “The way you joined us, you could have been a plant. It looked bad. But the boss told us about Redcliff. You single-handedly got him out of there and back here to us. If you were on their side, you’d have killed him. So I don’t need to do a full check; you’re in the clear.”

“Oh.” Dorian hadn’t even really thought about that, but…yes, he was right. If he had been a plant, he’d have stabbed Trevelyan in the back the minute they appeared in the future. If he’d been Venatori, he could have finalized the Elder One’s victory in an instant.

It hadn’t even occurred to him.

However: “You, on the other hand, are not.” He gave the Ben-Hassrath a cold smile. “Your choice to reveal yourself as a spy is a novel approach, but your allegiance still belongs to a force that is hardly our ally—and in truth, I wouldn’t trust you even if they _were_ on our side.”

To Dorian’s surprise, he got a big, toothy smile for that. “I knew you were a smart one. I like that.”

“If you’re so fond of intelligence,” Dorian hummed, “I hope your soulmate turns out to be an accomplished scholar. Though I’m not aware of any Vashoth who are particularly esteemed as such.”

The grin did not fade. “Aww. That’s real sweet of you. Wishing me happy.”

“How do you know that?” Dorian smiled. “It could be cruel of me. Considering your position, and the Qun’s.”

“Eh,” The Bull rubbed his bristly chin, “I know. I was going to take it in the nice way, though.”

“Are you an optimist?” Dorian half-laughed. “And a Qunari as well? That’s rarer than a unicorn. That’s rather like meeting Andraste _riding_ a unicorn.”

“Nah.” A wave of a frankly massive hand. “I wouldn’t say that. Just trying to be friendly. It’s my job. So hey,” he continued, before Dorian could reply, “how about you? Got a soul mark of your own?”

“Indeed not,” Dorian answered. He almost added, _But Trevelyan has, apparently_, before he remembered the whispering, and considered that the Herald might not want this generally known, yet—and after all, Dorian was talking to a spy. So instead he said, “There is no fate-scribbling anywhere on my incomparable skin, thank the Maker. I’ve never been any good at monogamy.”

“You know what they say about that. Specially when there’s a soul mark involved.”

“That I haven’t met the right one—yes, I know. I cannot exactly argue with that; anything is possible.”

“Doesn’t sound like it interests you much.”

Dorian sat back and contemplated the giant. “I dislike being placed under external restrictions,” he said. It was a considered reply; he didn’t want to give the spy too much to work with. He also pointed the comment directly at the Qun, and its treatment of mages.

But The Bull just grinned. “Too bad. I’ve got a few you’d look real pretty in.”

That suggestion came out of such an entirely different corner from the one Dorian had been thinking of that he was momentarily at a loss. He certainly understood it, but he needed a moment to decide how to answer it. Finally, clearing his throat: “You have _no_ idea,” and then, dismissively, “And I think you will continue to have no idea. Your loss.”

“Not your thing?”

He hummed. “I didn’t say that. Perhaps…not _generally_ my preference, no.”

“But sometimes?” That draconic grin lingered. Dorian thought the Qunari really had no right to pretend to be charming. He was entirely too rough and ungroomed for that.

“As I said, you aren’t likely to find out for yourself, so pressing for details seems rather useless.”

Most men knew when they were being rejected, and Dorian had always thought that being able to handle rejection with grace was the domain of the well-bred—so he did not expect grace from this brute. And the reply was not what he would call gracious—but it wasn’t offended either. The Bull seemed totally unconcerned, actually. “Hey, I’m not pressing. Sorry if it seemed like I was. I was just asking for my own information, in case we ever went there. I’ll stop.”

Dorian was surprised to the point of almost showing it. “Well.” He managed a smile. “Ser Adaar will no doubt be glad, someday.” With that, he attempted to turn his attention away from The Bull, and in so doing Dorian realized that the dinner crowd had filtered away while they were talking and the tavern was half empty now. There was no reason for them to still be here, sharing a table, too engrossed in conversation to notice their surroundings. Alarmed and embarrassed, Dorian cleared his throat again and stood, excusing himself.

\--

The Herald returned and barely gave himself a night’s sleep before leading the assault on the Breach. Nevertheless, they succeeded—an enormous feat, and an equally enormous relief. The celebration was going to be legendary—Dorian could see that from the very beginning.

“Some parties are routine,” he explained, “while others are notable only for one or two unique features. But there are also legendary parties, never to be forgotten, and it’s always obvious from the beginning when you’re in for one of those.”

“I wouldn’t know, darling,” the First Enchanter coolly replied. “I’ve never been to a _routine_ party.”

She strolled off, distancing herself from the rabble. Dorian kept his expression neutral and his eyes did not roll—and he turned his steps toward what would soon be a large bonfire, and a cask about to be opened.

Drinking, dancing, music, joy. The common folk ceased to spit at Dorian on sight, for a little while. They still gave him a wide berth, and there was no question of his being asked to dance, but he would take what he could get for now. Seeing The Iron Bull seated by one of the bonfires with a drink, Dorian took his own drink over and joined him—why, he didn’t know. He’d accidentally talked to The Bull more than any other one individual here, but he also had the most reason to avoid him. _Well,_ he reasoned, _he’s nice to look at. _So was Trevelyan, of course, but he’d disappeared somewhere at the moment. So Dorian decided to spend a few minutes enjoying the sight of firelight on an unusually large, muscular man’s body, and then when the conversation inevitably withered, he’d go see if perhaps Commander Cullen had taken off some of the armor for this occasion. Dorian thought he would double his appeal if he wore a little less.

“Goodness, isn’t it nice to have mages around, once in a while? Where _would_ we be now without them?” Dorian began cheerfully, stationing himself beside The Bull.

“I’m guessing we would have never known what a Breach was,” the Ben-Hassrath shrugged, “but who knows? Maybe someone _without_ magic somehow managed to non-magically rip a hole into the Fade.”

Dorian was at a loss for a moment—which he didn’t like at all. Annoyed, he turned toward the brute he’d been planning to surreptitiously admire. “And I suppose if the Qun had conquered all of Thedas, and everyone with the slightest magical ability was bound up with their mouth sewn shut, well, everything would be just fine then, would it?”

With a glance, the brute looked outward again. “Wasn’t talking about ‘everything.’ Just the Breach. You brought it up.”

“I suppose I did.” Dorian kept most of the snap out of his voice. He held himself back for a moment, but couldn’t resist adding, “And I suppose you support the way the Qun handles mages?”

“It’s not really my call.”

Grinding his teeth: “How Qunari.” Then, holding himself to an even tone: “You must forgive me. I simply can’t help myself, you know—I have this terrible habit of seeing mages as _people_, and the life of the _saarebas_ looks like a shocking way to treat any person.”

“Better than just killing them,” the Ben-Hassrath took a drink, “or letting them kill others.”

“I beg your—”

“How many people you think got killed by demons thanks to the Breach?” The Bull interrupted him. He leveled a serious look at Dorian, then sighed when there was no immediate response. “I’m not saying it’s a great solution. But I’m willing to live with whatever protects people who can’t protect themselves.”

For a long moment, Dorian said nothing. Then: “_You_ are not the one who has to ‘live with it,’ are you?” _Not to the same extent._

One eye gave him a long, searching look—but just as The Bull opened his mouth to reply, the warning bell clanged.

Haven was under attack.

\--

Dorian was climbing a mountain, in a blizzard, in _pain_.

He’d sustained several injuries defending Haven, and was now trying not to think about the possibility of bleeding out while he struggled to keep up with the Inquisition. He’d slowly fallen further and further back toward the rear of the march, and was slipping and struggling on hard-packed snow that had turned as treacherous as an unending, uneven ice sheet. He was extremely cold, and the Herald of Andraste was lost to them, and Dorian was beginning to think he himself was going to perish on this mountain as well.

_Won’t Father be annoyed…_

With the cold comfort of this thought, Dorian staggered again, almost falling…but he was caught. Huge hands lifted him, and through the white-out of the blizzard Dorian managed to make out a figure so huge it could only be a qunari.

The Iron Bull tried to support his weight for a few awkward paces, gave up, and turned and gave Dorian his back. Dorian tried to refuse, but the hands on his wrists were stronger and pulled his arms around a thick neck and lifted him, and The Bull carried Dorian on his back wordlessly—nothing said and nothing implied.

They camped, eventually.

The Bull brought Dorian to the healers’ tent, and he received a cursory spell from the former Grand Enchanter Fiona, but nothing more. It was enough to make sure his life was no longer in danger, but he was hardly back to normal with a snap of the fingers. Healing magic had its limits, and no one was pushing those limits on account of the wounded magister.

Thank the Maker, Trevelyan was found.

Dorian was kicked out of the healers’ tent to make way for the Herald, but he limped away relieved—they still had a chance, as long as that poor, earnest fellow with the Anchor on his hand was alive.

“Hey.”

Dorian stopped limping and turned his head and blinked. It was The Iron Bull.

“Can I help you?” he asked politely, pretending that he wasn’t bloody and limping and an absolute wreck.

A frown. “The healers let you go like that?” Dorian didn’t answer. He spread his hands, smiling and half-bowing. _As you see_. The Bull sighed. “Come with me.”

As Dorian had no other destination…he went.

The Bull called one of his men over and showed Dorian into a tent with—wonder of wonders—a brazier burning warmly inside. The fellow was called “Stitches,” apparently, and he commanded Dorian out of his clothes—“Well, I suppose you’re a handsome enough fellow, why not?”—and proceeded to ignore his blearily flirtatious remarks and tend to his wounds. Dorian was soon well-tended. His cut-up leg was cleaned, salved, and wrapped—as was the gash on his back and the relatively minor damage to his bare arm.

He was given commoners’ clothing, on loan, to replace his robes, which some other person took away and promised to “see about”—Dorian didn’t know who they were or what they would do with his robes, but The Iron Bull was overseeing everything, and the fellow _had_ carried him up a mountain. And now he was providing hot stew. It was Dorian’s opinion that Andraste had made a confusing choice by taking the form of a qunari warrior, but he wasn’t going to tell _her_ how to incarnate herself, after all.

Dorian was exhausted—but the chaos and trauma of the day lingered in his mind. He desperately wanted to sleep, but his body remained alert, his mind filled with Red Templars and horrors and monstrosities of red lyrium that had once been human—even though all that was now buried in an avalanche many hours away.

Mentally, he knew it was a post-battle stress response. But knowing that didn’t help him shut it off.

Right about then, The Iron Bull returned.

“Oh, hello. My appreciation to your surgeon and your cook…and whoever owns these clothes.” Dorian smiled. “Can I help you?”

The Bull hummed and sat down opposite him—but in the tiny tent, that didn’t mean much distance. He started to unbuckle his armor. “Nah.”

Dorian studied the removal of the harness with sharp attention. “May I ask what you are doing?”

A steady look. “Getting ready to sleep. This is my tent.”

“Ah.” Dorian adjusted his expectations. “Pardon me. I’ll just…” He shifted toward the front of the tent, but The Bull interrupted him.

“Take it easy, Dorian. You don’t have anywhere to go but a snowdrift.”

That stopped him in his tracks—because, after all, it was tragically true. “You can’t mean you’re willing to share your tent with me,” he smirked. “Defenseless in the same tent as a magister while you sleep? You’re quite the comedian.”

The Bull gave him another look, then, that was far from joking. “Hey. How about we save the games for morning? It’s been a long day.”

Dorian was entirely prepared to open his mouth and produce his usual spotless wit. Unfortunately, he was a bit distracted by the skin exposed as the leather harness and the wide belt came off The Iron Bull. “Hmm,” he said.

_I should…thank him for saving my life,_ Dorian thought. _And make amends somehow. Our last conversation was rather…_

But The Bull was still looking at him, fixed on his face as Dorian was fixed on the huge muscles being revealed. “Hey.”

“Mmm?” Dorian blinked and widened his eyes and raised his eyebrows, but failed to lift his gaze.

A long pause. “You wanna fuck?”

He swallowed. “_Mmm._” This time, he _did_ meet The Bull’s stare, and there really wasn’t much distance between them at all. _Such a small tent._

And then, the next moment, what distance there _was_ suddenly vanished.

Stubble scratched his face as The Bull kissed him; big hands encompassed his back, pulling him close as the giant pushed him down; the scent of metal and leather and stale sweat engulfed him—both enticing and unpleasant, but Dorian was more of a mind to be enticed than put off. He gripped a huge shoulder and the back of The Bull’s head and answered the kiss aggressively. Dorian’s body was completely on board with this; mentally, he was already aware that he was going to kick himself later—but he almost always thought that when he started something like this. It was practically a given.

The most unsettling thing about all this was not the exhaustion of the day or the uncomfortable tent or the fact that he was letting a Ben-Hassrath get much too close. It was his borrowed clothing. A simple pair of loose trousers and long-sleeved, plain shirt. He could feel The Bull’s hands through them much more than he would have in his customary layers and buckles. He felt naked—but worse than that, somehow. After all, Dorian was stunning in the nude. His perfect body was a thing to behold, and he knew how to use it and how to affect men the way he wanted to with it. He never felt vulnerable when he was naked—not anymore.

This was different.

The clothes were bland and concealed his perfections, yet they _felt_ like they weren’t even there. On his back, with The Bull pushing him down, kissing him and touching his body, Dorian was…_nervous._

_Of all things…_

Heart racing, little tremors in his hands, he shoved the feeling aside and pushed his hips up. “Get your cock out,” he panted against The Bull’s mouth.

Infuriatingly, the brute hesitated. His eye narrowed, focused on Dorian’s face. “You good?”

“I will be once you _get your cock out_,” Dorian answered through grinding teeth.

The massive hands headed in that direction, but The Bull had to persist in saying, “Because I’m not a mind-reader. If you change your mind…”

“I’m _not_ changing my mind.” _As if I would, over an odd little case of nerves._ “You offered. If you’re going to take it back—_ah!_” A hand shoved into his trousers touched him directly, cupping his erection. With little more than that, The Bull pushed the trousers down enough to be out of the way.

“Just checking.” Then he pressed his cock against Dorian’s.

_Oh, Maker, yes!_ Dorian liked _that_. He liked the heat of it, the hard shaft pressing down, rubbing against him. The way The Bull’s hand was able to wrap fully around both of them, shaming all little human hands from this moment on. Dorian groaned into another deep kiss, gripping the mountain of muscles for stability and thrusting up against him as The Bull thrust down.

They were off-rhythm at first. They were hampered a bit by their clothing, too, but neither of them managed to stop and take anything off, and Dorian was happy with that. It gave the encounter an element of fantasy—the warrior brute rutting against him in a tent, both of them still clothed. It was so delightfully coarse.

“Faster,” he panted, and when The Bull complied, they finally found their rhythm. “Oh, yes, just like that…!”

“Yeah? Good?”

“Yes don’t stop!”

Dorian’s pulse was pounding, his whole body consumed with the pursuit of pleasure—all else forgotten. It was wonderful. He didn’t even mind that The Bull kept catching his lips in kisses, though Dorian wouldn’t have asked for kisses just then. Not from a Ben-Hassrath. He might have asked to be bitten instead, but instinct warned him off such a thing. He didn’t want to bear marks of this tomorrow.

It didn’t last long. At such a pace, it couldn’t. As Dorian felt himself getting close, he gasped, “A little…rougher,” and demonstrated with fingernails raking The Bull’s back.

The other massive hand came up to Dorian’s head, slowly slid into his hair, and when Dorian did not object, the grip went tight, twisting his head a little with irresistible strength. Dorian whimpered, and The Bull pressed his mouth to Dorian’s ear and gave a deep, threatening growl.

Toes curling, Dorian arched up against the immovable bulk. “Kaffas, _kaffas!_” The Bull had put his own ear close, and Dorian turned and bit the curve of its pointed shell and came. He shook, emptying himself into The Bull’s hand, and heat that almost manifested as fire flashed around his hands for a moment. The Bull jerked as though startled—or perhaps for another reason, because Dorian felt his cock throb, then, and shoot a surprising amount of semen to add to Dorian’s mess.

Dorian collapsed. He was immediately exhausted. Sleep came at him with such power that it was hauntingly like a recent avalanche. Dorian could barely keep his eyes open. “Well.” He yawned. “That wasn’t half bad.”

“Mm. Yeah.”

Barely able to focus on the qunari now cleaning up, he mumbled, “I think you implied earlier that I was free to sleep in this tent?”

“Unless you _want_ to try the snowbank.”

Yawning again, Dorian rolled onto his side. “Most obliged, Iron Bull.” And he knew nothing else until morning.

\--

Dorian woke, to his chagrin, in the condition of being “spooned,” as he’d heard Fereldans call it. The smell was awful. The heat was…well, a little sticky, but otherwise he was actually happy with that part. _Good job finding the silver lining,_ he congratulated himself.

He also felt excellent—relaxed, pleased, and extremely well-rested. His injuries and his feet ached a little when he moved, but other than that… _Oh. And these clothes itch._ But other than _that_…

Dorian snorted and began to chuckle, and no amount of effort could suppress his laughter.

Bull must have been awake, or waking, already, because he yawned and asked, “Something funny?” He also shifted away a little, retracting his arm from around Dorian’s waist. His breath was vile.

Rubbing his eyes, Dorian rolled onto his back and sighed out the end of his amusement. “Oh…I just pictured my father’s face if I should ever tell him of this.” He snorted again as soon as he reminded himself of the thought. “Can you imagine? The first Ben-Hassrath I’ve ever met, and within a fortnight I’ve fucked him.”

The Qunari in question leaned on one arm and grinned down at him. “Congratulations?” he suggested. That made Dorian laugh all the fuller.

“Oh yes, in a sense. You’ve no idea, Iron Bull.” He looked up at the spy. “Just think—all my life, since even before my magic began to manifest, I was taught what to do if I ever met a Qunari. And if I should happen to know it was a Ben-Hassrath…_well_.”

“Kill them?” Bull guessed.

“Yes yes, obviously. But failing that—should I not be able to, for some reason—even as a child, my father taught me several ways to quickly kill myself. If all else failed, he made sure I knew how to bite my tongue before the vile Qunari could stop me. Better to bleed to death than fall into the hands of a Ben-Hassrath.” And he laughed again, pushing himself up to sit.

With a crooked smile that looked mostly forced, Bull said, “Probably shouldn’t have told me that. Now if the Qun ever orders me to bring you in, I’ll remember to jam a stick between your teeth first thing.”

“Ah, but biting my tongue is a last resort,” Dorian answered, raking his hands through his hair in a vain effort to straighten it a bit. “I’m not a helpless child anymore. If you’re thinking of capturing me, you’d better attempt to deal with my magic first.” He smirked. “Good luck with that, by the way. I could kill you as easily as blink at you.”

Strangely, now it was Bull’s turn to laugh, shaking his head. “Damn. I’ve had a lot of ‘morning after’ chats, but this one’s a first.” He extended his hand. “Hey, it’s been fun fucking and planning each other’s death. Breakfast?”

With a wide grin, Dorian shook the giant hand. “Certainly.”

\--

His robes were cleaner, though not completely so; breakfast was edible, though not pleasantly so; and the Inquisition headed north. Dorian did not, at first, travel with Iron Bull and his Chargers, but the rank and file of the Inquisition made such a point of avoiding him that he eventually fell in with the only ones who didn’t immediately scatter when he came within twenty feet.

Dorian soon realized that their tolerance of him was not really proof of acceptance, though. It was more likely a lack of fear. The Chargers were better fighters. None of them were a match for him alone, of course, but they had the air of a well-trained and organized group, and if they all moved in on him at once, Dorian had a feeling they might manage to kill him.

One, in particular, looked _very_ interested in killing him. A dark little elven woman wearing so many knives Dorian couldn’t count them without losing track.

“Fucking slaver.”

_Yes, she definitely wants to kill me._

“I should have thought it obvious that I am not, in fact, a merchant—not of slaves or anything else.” Dorian directed this outward to any who cared to listen. The woman, after all, had not addressed him directly either.

“You don’t own slaves? _Altus?_”

This came from the second-in-command. Dorian had figured out the basics of the group from his observations in camp and, now, traveling. The second, Aclassi, was _soporatus_, and he didn’t talk much. Thus far, these were the first words he’d directed at Dorian. They were not friendly. Dorian chose his response carefully. The elven woman was not the only one who looked hostile.

“Not personally, no.”

“Your family?” This, accompanied with a blade sliding out of its sheath. Without giving such an outward sign, Dorian was just as ready, the Fade at his fingertips.

“My family does, yes, and treats them exceptionally well.” The woman with the knives hissed, spitting.

“Like that makes up for it. You’ve been waited on hand and foot all your life by people your magister daddy owns.” Aclassi also spit.

Tightly, Dorian answered, “Perhaps you don’t realize it, but there _are_ no noble houses without any slaves. Any who attempt to make such a statement are immediately killed. The best any house can do is privately take care of their slaves and give them every privilege and dignity possible.”

Dorian maintained his usual pleasant demeanor, but he was annoyed. Instead of all the other aspects of his homeland that he could have wholeheartedly defended to these Southerners, they would choose _this_. And no defense would work, either. They were all determined to see Tevinter as the source of all evil and depravity. But Dorian couldn’t simply agree. They’d brought his family into it, and this was practically the only complimentary thing he could still _say_ about his family.

“That’s real nice,” a gruff dwarf chimed in. “Makes up for kidnapping them away from their homes and families.”

_Ugh_. “That is not the way the system is supposed to work, and my family does not have any illegally acquired slaves. Ours were either born such or sold themselves to provide for their family, for example. Or, in some cases, they simply had so little that becoming a slave in a noble house was a considerable improvement in their life. House Pavus’ steward was an orphaned street urchin, as I understand it—starving, with no recourse but begging or theft. Now he has a comfortable home, productive work, responsibilities in trust. Can the starving street urchins in the South hope for such an improvement?” Dorian was well aware that he was probably addressing some of those former street urchins. Ideally, they would understand him; but after all, probably not. They seemed to think they’d done all right for themselves—never mind that they were only mercenaries, and lucky to be that. If they hadn’t been strong enough to become fighters, what then?

“_Improvement._” Aclassi, naturally, was not impressed. “That’s fine, coming from an _altus_.”

Dorian hated it when people refused to answer a point of logic in an argument. He sighed. “I don’t truly know what poverty is like, it’s true. I’m simply willing to imagine that there are varieties of experience, rather than impose the blanket condemnation that slavery is the worst thing possible. Every person’s life experience is different. Certainly, to some, slavery _is_ the worst thing possible; to others, there may be something worse.” _Surely they can at least understand this much?_ “Given a choice, wouldn’t some choose to be a slave rather than…whatever other struggle they are currently facing?”

“Slaves _have_ no choice.”

“Neither do Qunari, for example,” Dorian smiled blandly, indicating the Chargers’ captain, who thus far had listened silently. “Neither do I, in some respects,” he murmured. He didn’t mean to place his life on the same level as a slave’s, of course. It was only…there had been an occasion or two.

House Pavus had two slaves who had met each other there, and eventually married, and now had a family. The miracle was that they felt safe and secure enough in their position to pursue such a thing. And they _were_. In Dorian’s life, House Pavus had never split up family members. They would not have their children sold off. They had work appropriate to their abilities. And sometimes, when Dorian came home from a party in the early morning, drunk and miserable and lonely, he had thought that he would rather have their place, and be a slave, and yet be free to love a man, and marry him, and throw all the miserable trappings of his birth to the Void.

But he didn’t explain any of that to these hostile Southerners—how could he? And as they angrily pointed out that he was not as badly off as a slave and it was an insult to imply that—the very thing he hadn’t meant at all—Dorian felt the best thing to do would be to get out of this subject by any means necessary.

“I haven’t said that my life is equal to a slave’s, I’ve only said that different people may find different hardships worse or better, depending on their own feelings.” The elven woman who had begun the argument wasn’t really contributing anymore, except with deadly looks that indicated her unswaying opinion clearly. It was the second, Aclassi, who was keeping things going, with his short interjections. Dorian levelled a rather piercing stare at him. “Is it so hard to imagine—Cremisius, was it? What about you? What if you could have been born to a slave—as a slave’s _son?_” The second’s face reddened with anger. “Now, which prison is more hated?”

Aclassi did not answer. He gave Dorian one murderous look and turned away, quickly putting the entire company between them, and then some. None of the other Chargers spoke to him after that—though the Inquisitor very soon stumbled upon an abandoned fortress, and Dorian was shut out silently as the Chargers talked with each other about this marvelous discovery.

As they neared their destination, Dorian found himself nearest Iron Bull—thanks, again, to everyone else avoiding his presence like the Blight. He studied the walls rising above them and commented, “Nice castle.”

“Oh? Are you speaking to me? What will your men think?”

Bull glanced at him, expressionless. “How’d you know about Krem?”

Dorian had a number of ways he could answer that. He put most of them aside. No need to tell the Ben-Hassrath anything. He went with the most obvious: “His fingers are tapered.”

A hum.

“Please curb your admiration.” The lack of response was answer enough. The Iron Bull was not bantering. After a silence, Dorian added, “I suppose I don’t need to ask for a Qunari opinion on the evils of Tevinter.”

He got another unexpressive look. “Probably not. But I don’t think that’s the point.”

“Oh?”

Slowly, steadily: “You pretty much won that argument, even if you didn’t change anyone’s mind. But you probably should have lost.”

Dorian didn’t need to ask what Iron Bull meant. “A tall order, asking me to forfeit.” When Bull just hummed, Dorian went a few paces more in silence before adding, “I’ll apologize to him.”

A nod. “Give him a bit, though. He’s about ready to rip your head off right now.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

\--

Maxwell Trevelyan was named Inquisitor, and in the chaos of organizing Skyhold, he quickly vanished among the advisors. Everyone was very busy. Dorian staked out a room for himself, and could have spent a great deal of time improving it to a livable standard, but he had nothing to make improvements with, so he was forced to give up. Others were busier, but no one wanted him around. Dorian picked out a spot that would be ideal for establishing a library, and made sure to inform the right people so that all crates of books would be delivered there—and then he had nothing more to do.

He found the Chargers busy in a number of reconstructive projects. Iron Bull was overseeing some of them, and his second was giving orders to others. Dorian waited half an hour before Aclassi seemed to have a free moment. He didn’t want to interrupt.

Aclassi was going over a list when Dorian finally approached. “May I have a moment?”

He got a dark glare. “What do _you_ want?”

“I wanted to apologize for earlier.” Dorian ignored the skeptical look. “In the matter of that disagreement. I should not have brought your personal business into it. I was too interested in winning the debate. I had no right to speak of your private affairs. I am deeply sorry, and ask you to forgive me.”

Aclassi looked confused, and not at all happy—whether over the subject, or he just hated being presented with Dorian again, it was hard to say. Dorian concluded his apology with a formal bow, and the _soporatus_ stared at him. “You messing with me?”

It was Dorian’s turn to be surprised. “Not at all,” he said, sincerely. “I upset you, and I regret it. I do have that effect on people, a little too often, perhaps, but I try to make amends whenever possible.”

“All right,” Aclassi answered, skeptically. “Forget it, then.”

Thinking this was probably the best he could hope for, Dorian bowed again. “Thank you. I will try not to make the same mistake again.”

“Right. Do that.” Then, as Dorian turned away—“Hey.”

“Yes?”

Aclassi shuffled through his papers a bit. “You’re a pampered noble ponce.”

“…Yes?”

A narrow look. “You’re a brat and a dandy, and if you didn’t have magic, you’d be just plain useless.”

“Your point?” Dorian prompted.

A bemused look flickered on the man’s face—a little startled too. “Don’t know. Nothing, maybe. Just wanted to say that.”

“Fair enough, I suppose.”

“Hey—what you asked. Before.”

“What I had no business asking?” Dorian clarified.

“Yeah. That.” Aclassi shuffled his papers again, then gave Dorian an evaluating look. “Not that you’ve got any right to know, but…” He glanced away, then looked at Dorian again resolutely, like he was forcing himself to. “There have been a few days. Like that.”

“Ah.” Dorian nodded. “I confess, I’ve…had a few of those days myself.” He wouldn’t go into detail. He didn’t need to remind the fellow of the differences in their situations. The only thing that was important was that they both knew what it was to look at their lives and think, _What if?_

_Would I rather be a slave in the right body, or free in one that always feels wrong?_

_Would I rather be who I am, and be a slave, or be free and always forced to hide?_

“Hmh. Suppose you might have.” Then Aclassi turned back to his lists. “Well, I’m busy.”

Dorian bowed again. “I’ll leave you to your work. Thank you for your time.” It hadn’t been pleasant, but he felt that he and Aclassi had cleared things somewhat, which was a relief.

\--

“Dorian! There you are!”

Straightening from the small pile of book crates he’d been examining, Dorian greeted Trevelyan. “Here I am indeed—somewhat less remarkable than your own presence. I didn’t have to face down an archdemon alone, after all.”

A laugh. “Face down? Like I wasn’t running for my life the whole time?”

“Well, be that as it may, congratulations on your new position, Inquisitor. What can I do for the illustrious leader? Pray,” he added, “don’t say you need any sort of valuable historical information. This collection is tragic.” He sighed at the books. He barely felt like there was a point in unpacking them and putting them up on shelves. “The only use I see for any of this is fuel for the fire.”

Trevelyan snorted. “Josephine can get better books, I’m sure. But that’s not it. Come with me for a few minutes?”

“Certainly.”

He followed the Inquisitor down into the hall, which was being cleared, and across it, and up more stairs. “I’ve met Varric’s friend Hawke, and we need to leave for Crestwood tomorrow, but before that I thought—you know, I’ve finally got a moment. And I’ve got my own room,” he unlocked a door with a flourish, “see? So I figured I’d show you my soul mark now.”

Amused, Dorian asked, “Is privacy required for this?”

The handsome man started unbuttoning his shirt. “A little, yeah.”

Dorian chose a chair and sat down with some poise. “Goodness, lucky me. Well, go on, don’t be shy. I’ll try not to fall in love with you. Where _is_ this mark, exactly?” Dorian found himself delightfully curious. Bull’s was so blatantly obvious, right on his arm like that. It was inescapable. Dorian really rather liked it. It made it impossible to have any misguided expectations, or to worry that the other party might have some expectations of his own. They could have sex without any drama—and so they had done. And it had been good enough. It certainly left room for improvement, however, and now that they were settling in here in Skyhold, Dorian had been wondering how stupid it would be to sleep with the Ben-Hassrath again…and perhaps investigate how much better the sex could get.

But Trevelyan was now naked to the waist, and Dorian kicked himself for his distraction. Here was a perfectly gorgeous young man, half naked, saying, “You’ll see, just a second,” and why on earth should Dorian be thinking about some brute of a qunari with this lovely specimen before him?

The Inquisitor began to unlace his trousers, and Dorian teased, “Oh my, better and better.”

A chuckle. “Don’t get too excited, I’m not stripping. And _for shame_, Ser Pavus. I’m here to discover my future wife’s name, not to put on a show.” With that, having just loosened his trousers enough for it, he pushed the waist down over his right hip, revealing Tevene lettering.

“Of course, Inquisitor, but you can’t blame a man for…” Dorian stopped there.

He didn’t breathe or blink. He stood, as if in a trance, and moved closer. Looked at the lettering that arched over Maxwell Trevelyan’s hip. Yes, he had seen it right. There was no more or less than this.

_Dorian Pavus_. His own name. The letters almost looked like they had been written by his own hand.

Blank with shock, he looked up at the cheerful, curious face. “What is it?” Maxwell Trevelyan smiled at him. “Do you know her?”

The entire world had just changed shape. This handsome, half-naked man was not his sacred leader, not his friendly new acquaintance.

_My soulmate._

That was the way it worked, wasn’t it? If he was Trevelyan’s, then Trevelyan was his.

_But…I don’t have a soul mark._

The young man was starting to look concerned. “Are you all right? What does it say?”

Dorian swallowed…then swallowed again. “I…ah.” He looked down again, and yes—still there. _Dorian Pavus_. There couldn’t be another. There were no commoners with the name Pavus; it was a noble house. There was no other Dorian in that house. It was his own blasted handwriting, for Maker’s sake!

“Dorian?”

He drew in a long, deep breath. “If I may ask…what makes you so certain it’s a woman?”

Now Trevelyan looked shocked. “Well, I just thought…I mean…oh.” He stared at Dorian probingly. “Is it…not a woman’s name? Is it a man?” He sounded incredulous.

“Do you…” He cleared his throat. “Are you not attracted to men?”

Confusion. “I…well, I don’t know. I never thought about it. I just figured a woman because…” Oddly, Trevelyan blushed. “Oh, you’ll think it’s stupid.”

“Please…tell me.” Dorian stepped back a little. Trevelyan had pulled his trousers back up and begun to lace them again.

With a cute blush and a shrug, he explained, “I’ve just always really wanted children. I’ve been really looking forward to having a family, and when the mark appeared, I just assumed it was a woman because—you know. Children.” Trousers back in place, he sat on a chair. Dorian sank into the one opposite. Trevelyan remained shirtless—distracting skin all beautiful in the shafts of sunlight. “I never considered a man before, but I guess that’s silly. There are children enough who lose their parents. I suppose I don’t have to have my own. I was more interested in raising them than…I don’t know. The process of getting them.” He flushed again, rubbing his shoulder. Dorian just stared at him.

“What if your soulmate doesn’t want children? Or…what if there are complications, with the person being from Tevinter?”

A comely shrug. “I don’t know. I figured, if we’re soul mates, these things will work out, won’t they?”

_What if your name isn’t written on that person as well?_

Trevelyan searched his face, which was probably still utterly blank. “You’re asking a lot of questions. Is there some reason you don’t want to tell me who it is?”

_Well…is there?_

The question echoed in his head. What was wrong with him? Here he was, looking at his soulmate, and hesitating to declare it. This was supposed to be a happy moment. He was supposed to be thrilled. Maxwell Trevelyan was a wonderful young man. Dorian was attracted to him. And now to discover they were meant to be together…! He stared at Trevelyan. _He’s…for me._

What he said, very slowly, was, “There are a number of complicated political ramifications involved in any marriage among the nobility. Considering you are foreign, and not a mage…”

“Nobility?” Trevelyan interrupted, bright eyes wide. “I thought you said the nobles in Tevinter don’t have soul marks, that it’s mainly commoners.”

“I did say that.”

“But you know this name.” He wasn’t asking. “And this person is nobility?”

“I…need to find out something,” Dorian offered as a lame excuse instead of an explanation. “And perhaps…a little time. If you can be patient, Inquisitor…” He managed a thin smile. “You should take some time to adjust to a different image of your…soulmate.”

“Should I?”

“I can tell you that your soulmate is a man, and from a noble house. Marrying you would have serious repercussions for him and his family—in the political sphere, I mean. I realize I have no right to suggest this, but perhaps you should adjust your plans and thoughts, while I…try to find something out.”

“But you will tell me, right? Eventually?”

“If you would trust me for a little while, Inquisitor, I will tell you when I can, yes.”

A slow nod. Trevelyan was clearly still curious, but he put that aside. “All right. I’ll leave it to you, Dorian. I’ve got to dash off to Crestwood tomorrow, anyway.”

Dorian rose, asking who he was taking. Trevelyan told him—Cassandra, Solas, and Blackwall. Dorian wished him well.

“Oh and Dorian?”

“Yes?”

“Well…I don’t have to marry him.” At Dorian’s hesitation, he added, “I mean, I was assuming marriage, but if the situation would make that too difficult, it won’t ruin things if we can’t get married. As long as we can be together…that’s all that really matters.”

Dorian smiled with an appealing show of warmth that didn’t exist in his heart. “You are adorable, Inquisitor. I will bear that in mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates daily.
> 
> A word on slavery: I think in fandom we generally gloss over some of the things Dorian has to say on this subject when the Inquisitor asks. We pretend this is one of the things he disapproves of about Tevinter, but frankly, it isn't. At least not at first. I do think when he eventually returns to Tevinter he sees things differently, but his views are in process during his time in the South.
> 
> The discussions on this subject exist in the context of the fictional world of Thedas and not the real world.


	2. Chapter 2

A night and a day later, when the Inquisitor was gone and evening had come again, Dorian stopped by the newly opened tavern.

The place wasn’t quite ready for business yet. The tables and chairs were just boards placed on top of anything that would hold them up. But there was a bar, and a bartender, and a fire. There was one type of beer, one ale, and something the bartender called wine. Anyone who could was invited to bring their own glass or tankard, but Dorian didn’t have one. He was served wine in a chipped teacup. He examined the drink with an arched eyebrow and contemplated whether this was a new low or simply so novel that it would be all the rage in Orlais next season. Then he took his drink and choked on it.

“I cannot believe I paid coin for this,” he mumbled to no one in particular.

The Chargers had a corner in the tavern they appeared to have claimed, and Iron Bull sat with his men, drinking. Dorian did not go and join them. He stood at the bar with his “wine” and watched.

Bull looked up and met his scrutiny.

Dorian pointedly held his gaze for a moment, then looked up, toward the upper levels. Then he looked back at Bull and raised his eyebrows in question. He had heard that Iron Bull had claimed a room above the tavern.

Bull shrugged in an agreeable way.

Dorian nodded, gagged down the last of his “wine,” and left the tavern.

He waited a while, and took his time heading up to the ramparts when he did go. He took fifteen minutes to make the two-minute trip to Iron Bull’s door. Then he knocked, and Bull was there, waiting.

“Come on in.”

Dorian did, gracefully strolling into the room. “I thought you might like to fuck me,” he announced. “I particularly thought having the use of a bed might improve your performance.”

“Didn’t know there was a problem with my performance,” Bull hummed, studying him.

Waving a hand, “Not a _problem_, no. Just…room for improvement. If you cared to try.”

A half grin. “I came up here, didn’t I?”

Dorian smirked. “So you did.” Then, unbuckling the first buckle, he lightly directed, “Very well. I want you to lick me—everywhere. And I do mean that.” The second buckle. “I want your tongue on absolutely every single inch of my skin. And,” third buckle, “I want you to _look_ at what you’re doing. Before you fuck me,” fourth buckle, and the top of his outfit came apart, “I want you to describe to me every single mark you find.” He flicked open the straps on his sleeve. “If you miss any, there will be a penalty.”

Bull, taking his cue from Dorian, had removed his boots and stood again. Now he was setting aside his belt. “Yeah? Like what?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” he hummed.

“All right.” The giant loomed closer, his giant hand encompassing Dorian’s head, thumb ticking over his cheekbone. “You got a mole right here, for starters.” And he kissed it, open-mouthed.

“That’s not a mole, it’s a beauty mark,” Dorian corrected, just before Bull’s tongue slipped into his mouth.

“_Mmh_. Yeah.” With a lick along his jaw, “There’s a tiny one right back here, too. Just behind your ear lobe…” Bull’s tongue on his ear, that hand in his hair bending his neck back for the attention.

“You’re going about this in an awfully scattered manner,” Dorian critiqued, managing not to gasp.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m about to get more thorough. A _lot_ more thorough.”

Spread out on a giant bed, Dorian almost began to regret his demand—mostly because Bull wouldn’t take Dorian’s trousers off until he was finished with his upper body, and Dorian was hard by halfway through it, and his trousers were uncomfortably tight.

“…Got a little dark spot right here.” Bull’s tongue traced the outside of his right wrist.

“That doesn’t count, it’s not a mark, it’s an ink stain,” Dorian gasped. “It’s ground in too deep to wash away, but if I don’t write anything for a month or two it fades.”

“Just being thorough, Dorian,” Bull grinned. “I wanna make sure I definitely get to fuck you.”

“I _told_ you that’s what I was here for,” he almost whined.

“Yeah, but you didn’t tell me what the penalty was for missing a mark. You could take it back.”

“Well, I…_hah_…won’t.”

Bull chose skepticism and kept mapping Dorian’s skin with his tongue. “This is a cute one,” he said, tongue rubbing over a nipple.

He groaned. “That’s no mark and you know it.”

“You sure? I think it’s a mole. Let me check some more.” Further licking—hot, wet tongue rubbing over and over, lips closing around the nipple and teeth teasing.

With a strained sound, Dorian grabbed a thick, rough horn and tried to push Bull away. “Get _on_ with it!”

A low chuckle…and Bull moved to the other nipple and _sucked._ Dorian swore. Bull rolled him over and licked his back. “It’s your game, Dorian.”

“I should have known better than to fuck a Ben-Hassrath.”

He was incredibly relieved when Bull finally took his trousers off. But Dorian had forgotten how much skin covered his legs.

Bull found the mole high up on the back of his inner thigh. “Damn, that’s…_naughty_,” he purred.

“Naturally. I put it there on purpose just to tantalize.”

“Mmm. See, it sounds like you’re being sarcastic, but you’re also a mage. So…maybe you did. How should I know what you’re capable of?”

Dorian was not capable of growing moles at will, as far as he knew. “When you are talking, you are clearly not licking. You’d better shut up and keep going, or we’ll never get to the part where you put your cock inside me.”

A chuckle, with a long lick over his ass. “You’re just trying to rile me up.” A gentle bite at the flesh. “It’s working, too.”

But it didn’t make Bull hurry up.

He found the birthmark on the sole of Dorian’s foot; the little scar on his shin; the patch of oddly pale skin on his thigh, caused by an early mishap when Dorian was first learning fire magic. In short, Iron Bull did exactly as requested and found every little mark on Dorian’s body, and he licked every inch of him. When his slid his mouth down and encased Dorian’s erection in it, Dorian very nearly came. His patience had grown so thin during the course of the game. But Bull gave him only a moment of attention there before rolling him over again and licking over his rim. Dorian squirmed, moaning. “If you’re…quite ready…I need to be prepared…”

Hands on his ass pulled the cheeks open wider. “Hang on, I didn’t lick you here, yet.” And Bull licked again, pushing his tongue…_in_.

“Maker’s…breath,” Dorian gasped. “That part…doesn’t count.”

“You sure? It’s still your skin.”

Dorian meant to explain that what didn’t see the light of day wasn’t to be regarded in this game, but all he managed was, “_Kaffas!_” as Bull’s tongue spread him open.

Then it was fingers, and _Maker_ they were thick.

“So did I miss any?”

“Hmm?” Dorian had his ass in the air and, though Bull gave him the second finger before he was ready for it, he was still pushing back against them.

“Your marks. Did I get them all?”

Dorian remembered. He went still. He sighed.

“Yes.” He could _feel_ Bull’s close scrutiny, suddenly. “Yes, well done,” he became brisk. “Now you may fuck me. The sooner the better, if you please.”

“Mmm.” Bull added oil and kept fingering him. “Hey, I’ve got some rope here. Want to give it a try?”

Dorian thought a moment, but at present he was hard enough to say yes to almost anything. “Very well, but be quick about it.”

The rope, as it turned out, was not ordinary rope; it was soft, strong cord, almost certainly meant for this use. Bull tied his hands together, lashed them to the bedpost above his head. Dorian was impatient with the process until Bull finished and got back to fingering him. He was on his back, now, and could look up at the enormous man above him, in all his muscled glory. Bull had discarded his pants, and Dorian’s mouth watered at the sight of his incredible cock, powerfully hard, as long and thick and any fantasy. He began to reach…and was halted by the cord. He couldn’t touch, and he didn’t know if it was deliciously frustrating or just regular frustrating.

“Iron Bull?” Dorian’s voice was pleasant, polite, and steady.

“Yeah?”

“If you don’t enter me within one minute, I’m going to light you on fire.”

Fingers obediently slid out of him. Bull looked at him with brow lifted, but slicked his cock without a fuss. “I think that’s a bad call, Dorian. You’re not ready yet…”

“Forty-five seconds.”

With a hum and a shrug, Bull nudged his cockhead against Dorian’s entrance. “You’re still tight…”

“Thirty seconds.”

“Mmm. All right, big guy.”

He pushed in.

It _hurt_.

Dorian cried out, his body snapping up, arching off the bed. He yanked _hard_ on the restraints, legs grabbing and kicking at the man between them as he struggled to breathe and relax. “Oh, fuck, fuck, _fuck!_”

Bull held still, and did a fairly good job of holding Dorian still, too. “You good?”

“I’m…” Dorian heaved air into his lungs, eyes squeezed shut. “I can…” He exhaled, biting his lip. “Agh, _fuck_, all-right-you-win, get out!”

Gently, but wasting no time, Bull pulled out. Dorian grit his teeth through the renewed sting as his body returned to normal. “Vishante kaffas,” he ground out, and, “Void take the Qunari.”

“Told you so.”

Dorian opened his eyes and gave Bull the most annoyed and disgusted glare he could manage. “That is the worst thing you could possibly have said.”

“Sorry. Can I suck you off, or are you leaving?”

With a frown: “I’m not _that_ angry.” He cleared his throat and composed himself. “I’m going to assume you have done this with human men before?”

“Yeah.”

“Very well. Considering that this is the first time I’ve attempted to take a qunari cock, I’ll defer to your experience to determine when I’m ready for it.”

Bull, to his irritation, grinned. “I like it when you get snooty about sex.”

“Continuing to annoy me at this point is unwise,” Dorian warned.

“So I can suck you off?”

“I suppose, if you must.”

Thus began the part of the evening that would always blur into a hot delirium when Dorian recalled it, in private moments.

Bull engulfed his entire cock in his hot mouth and did things to him that wiped Dorian’s mind absolutely blank. When he added oiled fingers inside him again and began to slowly and gently play with his hole while torturing his shaft with delicious strokes of his tongue and sucking pressure, Dorian began to rapidly dissolve into a moaning mess. He kept tugging on his restraints, forgetting they were there until they stopped him from reaching down and wrapping his hands around Bull’s horns. He wanted to _touch_—but he could endure the denial, because Bull was perfectly exquisite with his mouth.

So much so, in fact, that he did indeed make Dorian come. He seemed to be avoiding Dorian’s prostate at first, just fingering him open, but at a certain point perhaps he changed his mind—he began to rub and torture that spot, sucking up and down at a firm, quick pace, and in short order that was it. Dorian no longer cared to hold out. He came with a cry, and spilled in Bull’s mouth, and tried not to be too aroused when Bull made no fuss about swallowing it.

“You want to go for two?”

“Mmm, _yes_, that sounds lovely…”

Bull turned him over and kept fingering him, lazily stretching him further and further—and kissing and licking again, all over his back, shoulders, ass, and the nape of his neck.

“Didn’t you get enough of that earlier?”

A deep, resonating chuckle. “Guess not.”

Dorian slowly recovered as Bull worked him open. He had no idea how many fingers Bull was using now. And he was starting to grow hard again. And then Bull shifted, and Dorian felt his massive cock press behind his balls. He felt like he’d been there for hours now.

“You ready to give this another try?”

“I left that up to you, I believe,” he murmured.

Bull laughed softly, rolled Dorian over, and leaned down between his legs. Without even trying, he could block almost everything else from view. “Good boy,” he murmured.

Dorian blinked, his head lifting sharply. “Don’t call me that.”

With a little surprise, Bull looked at him, but didn’t argue. “All right. I won’t. Sorry.”

Dorian relaxed. “I likewise set a ban on ‘little’ and anything of a similar meaning.”

“Got it.”

“Very well. You may fuck me now.”

A grin. “Thanks. You’re nice.” Then—hot pressure against his rim. Bull pushed forward, entering him smoothly, and this time, there was only a mild, rather arousing ache.

Dorian moaned, arching up, opening his legs wider. When Bull stopped, Dorian was about to protest…but then he noticed the warm pressure of Bull’s hips against his ass.

“There. That went better.” Purred against his throat, under his chin.

Panting, Dorian broke into a laugh. “Considerably,” he agreed, then groaned. “Oh, Maker…I didn’t know I could feel this full.”

“Good?”

“_Excellent._”

Bull hummed, smiling. Then he _moved_.

It should have been perfect. Bull set a slow, steady rhythm. Dorian could feel every inch of him, fucking him languidly, sensually. It was very good—but not quite perfect. Dorian knew what the trouble was, but he tried to adjust to the experience and enjoy it anyway.

_The rope._

He’d been bound now and then in the past. He didn’t seek it out, but he could see the appeal. This time, however, he liked it less. He felt helpless under the huge qunari—not endangered, but too submissive for his liking. He began to dislike being made to lie back and let Bull take him like this—even though Bull was doing it wonderfully.

Dorian couldn’t help it. He wanted to _touch_.

“Bull. Untie me.”

Slowing, Bull looked at him—then stopped, all the way inside. “Sure. Something wrong?” His hands were already tugging apart the knots and freeing Dorian’s arms.

“Not really,” he sighed, rubbing his wrists. “I just wasn’t enjoying it.”

Bull nodded, still watching his face. Dorian licked his lips, smirked, and wrapped an arm around that massive back, gripping a horn with the other hand. “That’s better,” he murmured.

It seemed to reassure Bull, who smiled in return, drew back, and thrust in again, a little harder. “How’s that?”

Dorian answered with a moan, tightening his grip. Bull thrust again, and Dorian’s hand slipped over his sweaty skin; his other hand tightened on the rough horn and did _not_ slip. Bull began to fuck him with a slightly faster pace than before, and _now_ it was perfect.

Hands roaming and exploring, Dorian freely touched as much of Bull as he could reach as the qunari fucked into him faster and faster. _He’s so big. So big._ Dorian couldn’t stop touching, and picturing Bull’s cock, not quite able to believe how well he was taking it, how easily Bull was fucking him. _I’m going to be crippled tomorrow_, he thought, with giddy delight, and then Bull asked if he was all right, and Dorian said, “Oh yes, yes,” and shared that thought aloud.

“Good thing?”

“I will…_nngh_…complain. If I cannot walk…I’ll send you a strongly worded…note. But…_ohhhh, oh!_ Yes, yes it’s a…a _very_ good thing.”

“Good,” Bull grinned, and kissed the tiny mole behind his ear.

“Kaffas, oh Maker, oh—I’m going to…!”

“Me too,” Bull grunted. Dorian writhed under him.

“Touch me,” he panted. “Touch me, quick!” Then he fumbled a moment at Bull’s chest with his hand, and pinched one dark nipple.

With a grunt that turned into a growl, Bull gave Dorian’s aching cock a few quick strokes, and Dorian yelled, his orgasm sweeping through him in a hot rush, his spend caught in that huge hand.

A minute later, Bull pulled out and took himself in the same hand, growling. Dorian managed to raise his head enough to watch the largest cock he’d ever taken shoot an excess of semen across his stomach. “On my cock, too,” he panted, and Bull, stroking himself through the rest of his orgasm, let his come dribble all over Dorian’s spent, sensitive cock. It was _so hot…_

Dorian collapsed, body humming with delight. Bull didn’t let himself fall, but he shifted to the side and lay down close by. “You good?”

“Mmm.” Dorian stretched out his legs; they ached slightly at the change of position as the tense muscles relaxed. His ass _throbbed_. “That was…quite satisfactory,” he sighed.

“Glad to hear it.”

_And if I had a soul mark anywhere, he would have mentioned it. He would have assumed I knew about it already. So._ Dorian tried to gauge how he felt about this. _I don’t have one._

“I apologize for interrupting things earlier to make you untie me,” Dorian said, recalling that detail.

But Bull snorted. “Don’t worry about that. If you’re not enjoying something, it’s out. That’s it.”

“How gallant,” he murmured. “Your Karaas Adaar will be a happy man.”

Slowly, Bull turned onto his back. “Mm.” Dorian felt the weight behind that nothing response and considered.

“Yes, you’re quite right I suppose. There is _that_.”

A sigh. “It’s fine.”

Wondering aloud, Dorian ventured, “Bull…what would you do if you met Karaas Adaar and he didn’t have a soul mark?”

“I’d probably be a pretty big surprise for him,” Bull chuckled.

_Quite true. _“But what would you do about it? Would it worry you?”

With a little shuffle to get his horns out of the way, Bull looked at him. “Don’t know if it matters, Dorian. Either way, I can’t have a soulmate.”

“Well.”

“But that doesn’t happen, right? It’s always on both people, for some reason. Whatever makes them appear in the first place always gets both.”

“I’ve never heard otherwise,” Dorian agreed quietly. Then he looked at Bull. “But—hypothetically. If the Qun wasn’t against soulmates and you found out yours didn’t have a mark, would it bother you?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t grow up with the idea. Not too sure why you people care about them so much. If you want to be with somebody, be with them. Who cares what some weird magic writing says about it?”

Dorian considered. “Well…people want to be happy. The marks tell you that this is the person who is right for you, which will lead to happiness. I suppose that’s why we pay attention to them.”

“Guess I’ll believe that if I ever see it,” Bull sighed. “So far, I’ve never seen much reason to think people have to be ‘right’ for each other to be happy. I don’t see what other people have to do with happiness anyway. When you have a purpose and you’re doing what you are meant to…”

“Ah, of course. How very Qunari.”

A shrug. “It works for me.”

“Yes, lucky you.” Dorian winced, gently pushing himself up. Bull noticed and sat up quickly, helping him until he was settled against the headboard. “Unfortunately, the Qun’s treatment of _saarebas_ remains an unreconcilable problem with the whole philosophy.”

“Oh really?”

“Are you joking?” He stared at Bull. “It’s so obvious.”

“Like I said before—it’s not a perfect solution, but magic is dangerous. We have to protect people from it.”

“That only works when you treat magic as an abstraction,” Dorian countered. “Which you apparently _do_. But I am not talking about _magic_, I’m talking about _mages_. In other words—_people_. The whole philosophy of the Qun, as I understand it, is that every individual is fulfilled by serving the whole of society in a role that suits them, yes? But no one is raised for the role of a _saarebas_. And what do the _saarebas_ even do? Tell me that.”

“Combat, mostly,” Bull answered, expression neutral. “Under _arvaarad_ supervision, they can use magic to protect others. That serves the whole too.”

“_Combat_.” Dorian huffed. “You don’t train them for it—that much is obvious. They just wade into a battle and their magic goes wild. And you have no control over who becomes a _saarebas_. What about someone born and raised for a completely different type of job, someone who has no stomach for combat at all? A clerk, or a teacher—a _tamassran_, as you call them? Someone who is happy caring for children, mending scrapes and teaching—and then instead of that, they have to have their mouths sewn shut, they can never speak again, and they are thrown onto a battlefield to slaughter everything in sight until the enemy manages to kill them. Are you honestly going to argue that such a _person_ is happy and fulfilled serving the Qun?”

Bull studied him. “Well…for one thing, you’re using ‘happy’ and ‘fulfilled’ together, like they mean the same thing, and I didn’t say that. I don’t know if anyone is completely happy all the time—not under the Qun, and not here either. The idea is knowing that you’ve got a purpose, and when you embrace that, you _can_ be happy.”

“And the _saarebas_’ purpose?” Dorian persisted.

“Mm. It’s true they have it tough. Probably tougher than anyone. The tamassrans try to teach them how to accept what they are and find meaning in it. But it’s true they don’t usually last long in combat. I always thought that might be for the best.”

Dorian made a sound of disgust.

“There can be meaning in self-sacrifice, Dorian,” Bull added. “If you believe in the cause, it can be worth dying for.”

“And the Qun thinks there is no contradiction in constructing a society where everyone cooperates to benefit the whole—except some, who have to be brainwashed into believing that they’re happy to die instead.”

“Hey, I agreed it’s not perfect. If no one had magic…”

“That sort of wishful thinking won’t repair the hypocrisy in the Qun, because magic _does_ exist. And again, you’re abstracting it. It isn’t a plague some unfortunate people catch that turns them into ‘dangerous things’ as you call them. Mages are people with a unique skill—one the Qun hates and fears and sends them to die for possessing.”

“All right, let’s say I agree with you.” Bull spread his huge hands. “Hypothetically, let’s accept everything you’ve said. Now—what about demons?”

Dorian frowned. He already knew he wasn’t going to like this. “What about them?”

“Demons exist too. Mages are susceptible to demon possession. And if you want to tell me that mages can resist it if they’re probably trained, you need to explain what this ‘proper training’ is, because I haven’t seen anyone get it perfect yet. The Circles have abominations pop up, even though they use Tranquility to try and keep that from happening. And don’t even try to tell me demons aren’t a problem in Tevinter. You’re not that kind of guy.”

“I never said I support the Circles—I don’t. I think the system is deeply flawed. And I never argued in favor of Tevinter’s abuses either. That’s why we need reform.”

“And a reformed Tevinter—that would be a perfect system? No abominations ever?”

Dorian hesitated. “I don’t know. I’d like to think it’s possible, though it would take a lot of work.”

“Hm.” Bull shook his head. “Meanwhile, under the Qun, there are _no_ abominations. No demons working behind the scenes, manipulating people and hurting others. It might come at a price, but we’re the only place in Thedas that can claim to be demon-free.”

After a long look, Dorian also shook his head. “Not to defend demons—they’re utterly vile—but when I contemplate the life of a _saarebas_…well, I’ve seen demons that were comparatively mild in the harm they did and the pain they caused. And no one defends that as perfection. That is, perhaps, the worst thing about the Qun—it claims to be perfect, but it isn’t. It simply silences those who suffer the most.”

Bull gave him a steady look. “Not to change the subject or anything, but I could say pretty much the same thing about Tevinter and the lives of the slaves.”

Dorian opened his mouth, stopped, and thought about that. Then he shut his mouth, and thought a little more. “Hah. You may have me, there.” Comparing slavery to the “freedom” of the south hadn’t convinced Dorian that Tevinter was so much worse. But drawing a parallel between slaves in Tevinter and the _saarebas_ under the Qun put things in a different light. “Although I would add that there have been slave rebellions. They aren’t entirely silenced. And they generally live longer than _saarebas_ do.”

“But slave rebellions are rare, and get crushed. And if a saarebas can die feeling like they protected someone, is that really worse than a slave living through decades of suffering and humiliation with no purpose?”

“Mmmm…I’m inclined to believe it is always better to be alive than dead. But,” Dorian admitted, “that is _my_ opinion, and others might feel differently, in the face of their particular struggles.”

“That’s fair.”

Dorian looked at Bull, sitting beside him. “We still don’t actually agree, though, do we?”

A shrug. “Do we have to? I think it’s nice just to figure out where someone else is coming from. I don’t expect you to convert to the Qun.”

It hit Dorian, then, that by talking so long with Bull, he may have given the Ban-Hassrath considerably more insight into his thinking than he meant to. _That could be dangerous_. Who could say what Bull’s superiors might do with this?

_Well…no sense worrying about it now. But I must remember who I am talking to in the future._ With that, Dorian realized just how long they’d been sitting there talking—naked, in the usual post-coital mess, and both of them badly in need of a bath.

“Does any mage willingly convert to the Qun?” Dorian asked airily, scrubbing at his stomach with a corner of the blanket.

Bull admitted, “Not that I know of. But hey—there’s always a first.”

Scooting to the edge of the bed, Dorian hummed, “I may already be the first altus to sleep with a Ben-Hassrath. That’s enough trend-setting for now. Where in the Maker’s name am I going to bathe in this wreck of a fortress?”

“I guess they haven’t got that figured out yet.”

“It’s much too low a priority for these unwashed commoners.”

“Got a water bucket,” Bull shrugged, pointing.

Thus, Dorian—much put-upon, and saying so repeatedly—was forced to content himself with a cold sponge bath. It was better than nothing, and he had to admit it was his own fault for failing to think this through. He had other concerns, anyway.

It took him ages to limp slowly back to his own room.

\--

The Inquisitor was gone for two weeks. Dorian slept with Iron Bull ten more times. They got into arguments almost every time they met, yet generally parted on amicable terms. Dorian avoided the Chargers and tried _not_ to get into arguments with them, because those were less amicable. Aclassi, at least, was tolerating him. He didn’t join in when any of the others tried to start something hostile. He didn’t prod to keep arguments going when Dorian was trying to walk away.

Skyhold came together a bit, and Dorian acquired a tub for his room. It barely fit in the tiny space, but the ability to properly bathe cheered him considerably.

It was about halfway through this two-week period when Dorian arrived early in the tavern one night and decided to wait for Bull. They were going to have sex for the sixth time that night—not that anything had been arranged, but Dorian wanted to and, so far, that had been the only reason necessary.

In waiting, he fell into conversation, of sorts, with Aclassi—or “Krem,” as Bull called him.

“The Chargers did a lovely job setting up the stables.”

A grunt—possibly a thanks? But an acknowledgement, at least.

“What’s the job tomorrow?”

“Road clearing.”

“Ah.” Dorian swallowed ale. He’d given up on the tavern’s “wine.” “Let’s hope the weather is fair.”

“We’ll repair cells in the dungeon if not.”

“Well planned.”

Another grunt.

After a pause, Dorian began, “I wonder if I could ask you something.”

“What?”

“Well…do you have a soul mark?”

A sudden frown. “No.”

“I see.” Dorian took another drink. “Iron Bull does.”

“I noticed.”

“Yes, well. What do you think of them, in general?”

Krem looked disturbed now. “I don’t know. Nothing to think about unless you’ve got one. If you get one…I guess that’s it, isn’t it?”

“Hmmmm.” Another drink. “What would you think…say you met someone who had a soul mark of your name, but you didn’t have one of theirs—or any at all. What would you do?”

Krem snorted. “That’s not possible.”

“I know it’s not supposed to happen, but what if it did? There’s always a first. How would you handle that?” Perhaps it was foolish to ask Krem. Perhaps it was foolish to ask anyone. But Dorian had no friends here. He had an idea what he was going to do, and a second opinion probably wouldn’t change his mind, but he would feel better about his decision if he at least had the chance to talk to someone about it. Even in vague terms.

Krem swallowed his own drink for a minute, then asked, “This other person with the mark—she suits me?”

“Oh, very well.”

“Do I suit her?”

“Let’s say you don’t know yet—apart from the evidence of the mark. Perhaps it’s like Iron Bull’s mark, and you see your name before they know who you are. Would you tell them?”

“And I’ve got no mark to prove it.”

“Correct.”

Krem shrugged. “Don’t know. If I saw them in passing like, probably not. Could be someone else with my name. But I guess, if we were thrown into each other’s company…” He took a slow drink. “I guess I’d explain everything to them and see what they want to do about it. Wouldn’t be just my decision. Only fair to at least let them know.”

He nodded. “It seems that would be the most honest thing to do.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Iron Bull came in, then, and Dorian excused himself.

“Hey big guy. You two making friends?”

“Well, he didn’t club me. I call that progress.”

\--

The night before the Inquisitor was due to arrive, Dorian fucked Iron Bull three times in a row, in his own room instead of Bull’s for a change.

He demanded to be fucked upright against the wall first. Then he demanded Bull lie down, and he straddled his lap and rode him through another orgasm. Then he filled the bath and demanded Bull get in, and Dorian squeezed in alongside him. He let his hands misbehave, and Bull did the same, and Dorian ended up in Bull’s lap again, cocks pressed together, huge hands jerking them both off as Dorian fingered his abused hole and they kissed sloppily, too tired for coordination.

Afterward, Dorian wrapped himself in a dressing gown and reclined in bed, watching Bull dry off and put his clothes back on. “Bull?”

“Hmm?”

He hesitated, but managed to force the words out. “This isn’t going to happen again.” A raised-eyebrow look. “The two of us, I mean. This was the last time.”

“Okay.” That’s was all. Bull didn’t ask, but his tone left Dorian room to explain, should he wish to.

“I’m going to sleep with the Inquisitor.”

Bull looked faintly amused. “Does he know that?”

“Not as such,” he admitted, “but trust me, it will not be a problem. We’ll probably be in a relationship soon.”

“All right. If that’s what you want.”

“It is, of course,” Dorian sighed, leaning back. “He’s attractive, well-born, and a good man. Quite the ideal.”

“Sure,” Bull agreed. “I’d do him.”

Dorian shot a disapproving glance at the brute. “That is not what I’m talking about. Oaf. I’m talking about a relationship. _Romance_. Sharing your life with someone you love. Not that you would know about any of that.”

“You in love with him?”

The answer didn’t come readily to his lips, and in the pause, Dorian thought better of answering anyway. “Do quit prying.” He stretched a little; his back was terribly sore. “I can’t imagine the Ben-Hassrath are clamoring to know, in any case.”

Bull chuckled. “Not every question I ask is an order from the top, Dorian.”

“No,” he hummed, “but every answer you receive is reported to them, isn’t it?”

Bull was studiously strapping his brace on over his boot. “Maybe.”

With a long look, Dorian studied his erstwhile lover. Was that “maybe” as in “yes, but I don’t want to say so” or “maybe” as in “maybe, maybe not”? _Probably the former_, Dorian decided. _But what if it were the latter?_

“It’s too bad,” he said, “that your Qun takes such a dim view of relationships. I mean for your sake. What a pity you’ll never know anything beyond the casual attachment of a momentary lover.”

“Eh. I don’t know. Seen a lot of mess come out of relationships here in the South.” He pushed himself up and straightened. “Anyway, I thought you were no good at monogamy.”

Caught, Dorian shrugged. “One can always be inspired to try it.”

“Well, I hope it works out for you.” Bull winked. “But if you lose your inspiration, you know where to find me.”

_Ugh. Perverse brute._ But he said, “How kind,” while stifling a yawn, and waved toward the door. “You’ll see yourself out? I’m too exhausted to get up.”

“You’re welcome,” Bull grinned, and left with a, “Night, Dorian. Sleep well.”

\--

The day of his return, Maxwell Trevelyan was allowed barely enough time to strip out of his armor and wash off the grime and dust of travel and dress in clean clothes before the advisors “requested and required” him in the War Room. The meeting was interminable, and Maxwell struggled to focus. There was a tavern with his name on it—literally—calling to him with the promise of a hot meal that wasn’t trail stew and a nice, relaxing beer or three; barring that, there was a magnificent bed upstairs he was dying to sleep in for a full night—blissfully raised up off the ground by the wonderful creation called a _mattress_.

But he was the Inquisitor, and the world needed him. There was work to be done.

Toward the tail end of all the business he had to address, the less urgent things began to come up. Correspondence and other simple matters. Skyhold looked worlds better already, thanks to the labors of the Inquisition while he’d been gone, and everyone was making efforts in their own particular domain. Maxwell shuffled through a pile of letters he didn’t especially need to worry about, just getting a feel for what everyone was doing.

And then he stopped, frozen, and stared at one letter. For the longest moment, he couldn’t breathe, and when he finally did, he sucked in a long, deep breath, still staring.

Leliana noticed his shock and leaned over, examining the paper in his hand. “That is, I believe, a letter Lord Pavus is sending to an acquaintance of his, requesting some books and other materials for the library.”

“It’s in Tevene,” he murmured, distracted. His hand fell to his hip, and rested there.

Josephine answered, “His connections are all in Tevinter, naturally.”

But Maxwell wasn’t looking at most of the letter, and he didn’t care what it was about. He was looking at the one line at the bottom—as unreadable as all the rest, but shockingly familiar.

\--


	3. Chapter 3

It was midmorning, and Dorian had made great progress on the library. The crates were gone, the books all shelved—not that doing so made them any less worthless, but he could look at all the neat rows of spines and imagine they were good, useful books…at least until he could get some proper books to replace them with. Then most of this would feed the fire. _Why do Orlesians even bother to publish such drivel?_

And then the Inquisitor appeared at the top of the stairs and headed straight toward him, and Dorian turned to meet him. “Inquisitor, welcome back…”

Trevelyan held up a paper. He looked…fraught. Dorian blinked, and recognized a letter he’d written—and expected would have been sent yesterday, but it was no surprise or trouble to encounter delays…

_Oh_. He realized at the same moment that the Inquisitor said, “This is your signature, isn’t it?” He swallowed, eyes searching Dorian’s face. “This is your name.”

_Well, this isn’t off to the best start_. Steadily, gently: “Yes. That is my name. And perhaps we should discuss this somewhere private…?”

“It’s your name.” Trevelyan sounded like he couldn’t believe it. “It’s _your_ name. And you didn’t tell me?”

“Inquisitor—_privacy_,” he murmured, glancing around the tower. “My room is just over there, and I can explain. Please don’t make a scene.”

Maxwell Trevelyan had been brought up in a station of life that trained him well—much as Dorian had. “Making a scene” was absolutely not acceptable, and the words got through his shock. He blinked, collecting himself and nodding, and followed Dorian out of the library and to his tiny room.

The door shut. “I can’t believe it,” Trevelyan murmured. “It’s your name.” He looked up at Dorian with a bewildered mixture of wonder and wounding. “_You’re_ my soulmate. Why didn’t you tell me? You must have recognized immediately…” One hand pressed over his hip. Over the mark.

“Inquisitor—my friend.” Dorian swallowed and tried to smile. He stepped closer and took the letter, setting it aside. “You’re right. It is my name, and I did recognize it. But there are…circumstances.”

“Like what?”

He drew breath, and took the man’s hands. “I don’t have a soul mark.”

“What?”

“Yours is my name, yes, but I don’t have one,” he repeated. “I never have had one, and I still don’t.”

“But that can’t be…”

“Quite so. As far as anyone knows, it’s not possible.” He continued gently, “When I saw your mark, I thought there was a mistake. Or perhaps one had recently appeared on me and I hadn’t noticed. I didn’t tell you then because I wanted to make sure. I was planning to tell you now—as soon as you had time, and I could speak to you about it. But you’ve preempted my explanation.”

Trevelyan looked confused and unhappy. “So…this means what? You’re my soulmate, but I’m not yours? That’s not what a _soulmate_ is!”

“I know,” Dorian agreed. “And I confess, I don’t understand it. But I am willing to take your mark alone as all the proof I need. Whatever the reason is, I won’t care if you don’t.” He smiled. “You might care, I suppose. You might think me quite inadequate without a mark…”

“No!” To Dorian’s surprise, Trevelyan suddenly grabbed his shoulders and hugged him. “Oh, Dorian, I don’t care at all! Well I mean,” he stammered, “that’s not right, I _do_ care, but what I mean is that it doesn’t change anything for me. I want to be with my soulmate, and that’s _you_.” He beamed at Dorian. “I’m just so happy to have _met_ you!” He softened, raising a hand to Dorian’s face. “My soulmate.”

It was such a sweet gesture, from such a handsome man, that Dorian had to smile in return. And he leaned forward slightly, pausing just long enough to confirm with a glance, and then they both leaned in together, and their lips met in a perfect kiss. They were the same height, and they kissed with the same pressure, with a kind of hesitating affection and hope. Dorian was the first to part his lips a little and taste, but Trevelyan followed right after, and there was no awkwardness and nothing went wrong.

_I suppose that’s a soulmate for you_, Dorian realized.

When they parted, Trevelyan’s face adorably flushed, Dorian smiled and murmured, “I should add that it was also true that I thought you might need time to…adjust your thinking, so that I would be less of a shock. I hope it helped.”

Trevelyan grinned at him—cute, with a bit of wickedness in it. “You mean because you’re a man.” Dorian hummed, nodding. Trevelyan snuck in for another quick kiss. “I confess I’ve never bedded a man before, but you’re right—I’ve been thinking about it, since you told me that. I’m extremely curious. In fact…I’m _eager_ to try it.” Then his naughty expression slipped in favor of a more candid one. “Will I be the top or the bottom?”

Dorian snorted. “What a question…” No one had ever flatly _asked_ him such a thing before; they just _knew_, or they adapted when it was happening.

“I asked Blackwall and Solas about it on our trip, but neither of them wanted to talk about those things, and Cassandra wouldn’t even acknowledge me.” Then his wicked smirk returned. “So you know who I asked?”

“I cannot fathom.”

“Hawke. Varric’s friend.”

Dorian blinked. “Oh!”

Trevelyan looked incredibly pleased with himself. “I found out his lover is a man, so I asked him all about it. He told me all _kinds_ of things. But,” he added, “he couldn’t tell me which role my soulmate would prefer, or which one _I_ would prefer, so I decided I’d just be prepared to try either, whichever you wanted.”

Momentarily at a loss, Dorian cleared his throat. “Let’s discuss this further when we get to that.”

“Oh, all right.” Another adorable smile and kiss. “So…tonight?”

Dorian laughed. “Why not?” They kissed again, and he could feel Trevelyan’s earnestness in it. There was just one other thing…

“I have something else I feel I should tell you,” he began.

“Oh. Yes?”

“Yes. You see, I have had quite a bit more experience with men than you have. I cannot even tell you how many.”

A shrug. “All right. Does it matter?”

“Only in one point, it might.” _He should hear it from me…_ “I have been sleeping with Iron Bull.” Trevelyan blinked, looking startled. “It began before I saw your mark. And after…”

“You slept with him after you saw my mark?” The man didn’t look too happy about that.

“I thought perhaps that I had a mark somewhere I couldn’t see it,” Dorian explained, though it was a lame excuse. “I didn’t tell him the reason. He confirmed that I don’t have one.” Dorian skipped over two weeks of sex and concluded, “I’ve told him it won’t happen again. He knows we are finished.” To be perfectly honest, he probably should have admitted the full scope of the affair. But Trevelyan looked like he would ask _why_ again—and Dorian didn’t have a good answer for that. _Why indeed_—he was still unsure of that himself. _Because it was available, and good, and I wanted to have him while I still could?_ That was the most likely explanation. Dorian was terrible at self-denial.

Trevelyan, Maker bless his sweet heart, looked encouraged. “You told him that before you knew if you and I would work out, even though you don’t have a mark?”

Melting a little, Dorian kissed him. “Yes.” _What a darling man, to take it so well._

“Ah, oh dear.” Trevelyan blushed, nudging his forehead to Dorian’s. “That’s so sweet.”

As they kissed again, Dorian wondered if this was going to be typical for them—making up before they could even fight. _Perhaps so, as soulmates._

\--

After supper, he passed Iron Bull in the great hall. “Hey.” A wave. “See you in the tavern later?”

Dorian paused. He was on his way to the Inquisitor’s room. “No, I’m afraid not. Not tonight.” He glanced in the direction of that particular door.

Bull caught the look and smiled. “Got it. I’ll tell Varric to deal you out.” A one-eyed wink. “Have fun.”

“You do as well.” Dorian did not let his gaze linger on Bull’s back as he walked away. He turned his steps and went up. Trevelyan met him with open arms, lit candles, warm kisses, and excellent wine.

“You like it?” He seemed pleased. “I told Josephine to find me something you’d like. I don’t know Tevinter vintages very well.” He sipped his own glass happily. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes. It’s delightful,” he purred. “You have my thanks, Inquisitor.”

“Dorian!” Reproachfully. Arms drawing him close, voice lowering. “Your name is written on my skin,” he breathed. Taking Dorian’s hand, he pressed it over his hip. “I think that’s reason enough for you to address me by my name.”

“Mmm. Maxwell, then.” Dorian murmured in his ear, “Shall I answer your question from this morning?”

“_Please_,” the man groaned. Dorian smiled.

“I enjoy both roles,” he said, “and I hope to take both with you. But for preferences, I usually take the part of the receiver.” He kissed the man’s ear and whispered, “Won’t you fuck me?”

Trevelyan—_no, Maxwell_—groaned, kissed him passionately, and growled, “Gladly.”

And he did, and the whole night was like a dream.

They stripped each other, kissing and exploring, and nothing went awry. The anticipation built smoothly and steadily until they were both naked, and lay in bed together. Every touch was the right touch. Everything they did was delightful.

Dorian caressed and kissed and sucked Maxwell’s cock—a perfect feature, as far as he was concerned. Large, but not huge like Iron Bull—he would be easier to take, without sacrificing pleasure. He fit in Dorian’s mouth perfectly, and everything Dorian did to him increased his pleasure. Dorian brought him to climax in his mouth, enjoying the sight of Maxwell’s ecstasy. He even tasted good.

While he recovered, Dorian showed Maxwell how to prepare him—though he hardly needed to. For it being Maxwell’s first time doing this, he did it very well. Hawke’s explanations must have been quite thorough.

And when Maxwell entered him, it was perfect; and when he fucked Dorian, he did it perfectly; and when they came, it was together, and it was perfect. In the afterglow, Dorian lay in Maxwell’s arms and tried to imagine how they were ever going to improve on this—and he couldn’t imagine it.

So, after all: _We are soulmates_. Dorian’s mysteriously unmarked skin was no longer important. He’d never experienced an encounter like that before, and _certainly _not the first time. It was…well, magical. Apparently Maxwell was indeed his soulmate.

_So this is it_, he thought, as Maxwell kissed him again. _I’ll spend the rest of my life with him_. And Dorian felt…happy. Yes, he was happy, if a little bewildered by how easy everything had been.

He felt like he was walking in a dream. It was lovely, but he was going to need to get used to such simple bliss.

\--

There was no longer any question about whether Dorian would travel on field missions with the Inquisitor or stay in Skyhold. He was going. Max couldn’t do without him for that long, and Dorian supposed that he couldn’t either.

“Hey, big guy. Heading to the Western Approach, right?”

They were in the courtyard, in the early, chilly pre-dawn, preparing to leave.

“Quite so.” Dorian shivered, blowing into his gloved hands. He dearly hoped his nose wasn’t red. “Try not to hand Skyhold over to the Qun in our absence, yes?”

Bull laughed. “You won’t be gone long enough. It would take them more than a couple weeks to get here from Par Vollen.”

“How comforting.”

“You look cold.”

“How observant,” he sighed. “I can’t wait to get out of these mountains. The desert is supposed to be hot—this is my sole consolation.”

“Yeah, but bundle up at night. It gets cold when the sun goes down.”

“Well, that’s hardly—” Dorian cut himself off. He’d imagined a picture of what his nights were likely going to consist of, sharing the Inquisitor’s tent. But there was no need to tell the spy about that. “I’ll survive,” he said instead.

A grin. “With a little help from the boss?” Dorian leveled a flat glare at him. Bull shrugged. “Heard the quartermaster going over the supplies. ‘This tent is for the Inquisitor and that vile Tevinter,’ she said.”

Dorian sighed. “Yes, all right. Max and I are sharing. Now you can write to Par Vollen all the latest romance gossip from the _bas_. Happy?”

This time, just a smile: “As long as you are.”

Dorian frowned. “I don’t understand this pretense of yours. It doesn’t fit the act. Mercenaries are not known to be caring people.”

“Eh. Neither are Qunari. At least, I get that we look pretty cold to outsiders. Doesn’t mean we really are, though. We love our friends as much as anyone.” And he smiled at Dorian like that was supposed to mean something to him.

But Dorian shook his head. “You cannot befriend _bas_. We’re all merely potential future enemies to you. Nice try, though. You’ve correctly discerned that I lack friends, and am likely to welcome an offer of friendship.” He rubbed his hands together. “You fail to take into account my upbringing, which taught me extreme caution regarding the Qun, but it was still a good try.”

If he expected Bull to be put off by this, he was wrong. With a chuckle and a slap on his shoulder, Bull said, “I dunno. Your upbringing didn’t keep you from fucking me. And I like to live in today. Can’t do much about the future, but as far as I’m concerned, you’re a friend for now.”

Baffled, Dorian couldn’t come up with much of a reply to that. Only: “Charming.”

Another slap. “See you in a couple weeks, big guy! Don’t wear the boss out!”

\--

In the South, they had a thing called a “honeymoon”—whether it was a trip together or simply a phase for those who couldn’t afford a trip, it seemed to describe the period just following the beginning of a relationship. It was characterized by attentiveness, bliss, affection, and lots and lots of sex.

Despite the rigors of traveling through a desert, this was, in a word, Dorian’s “honeymoon” with Max.

They never pushed hard enough during the day to make themselves too exhausted at night. And because they were traveling in the desert, Max often called a rest during the hottest two hours of midday. He and Dorian didn’t usually have sex at those times. They napped—which helped replenish the sleep they missed at night.

They often missed a few hours of sleep at night.

In the balmy warmth of the early evenings, Dorian spent countless hours with Max—naked. The tent they shared was their private little haven of pleasure. They filled the evenings with kisses, with slick, sweaty caresses, with hours of passion. And every time was perfect.

If it hadn’t been so good, it would almost have been monotonous. When Dorian had been unable to imagine improving on their first time, he’d been right, in a sense. Every time was like that—magically perfect. Even when they switched roles, there was no real difference. Dorian had expected to enjoy it less; he did like to top, but he had never liked it better than bottoming. He was sure, before they tried it, that he’d discover it was less perfect, somehow, and he would still prefer the bottom. But not so.

For the first time in his life, he was equally happy in either role—absolutely so. He then thought Max would have a preference—but he didn’t either. Whatever they did together was delightful; nothing was less than that. Dorian began to contemplate the sexual activities he genuinely disliked. He wondered what would happen if he asked Max to piss on him. The idea was as horrible as ever…but what if nothing between them could be horrible? What if Dorian genuinely enjoyed it simply because it was Max?

He didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know.

They met up with Hawke and Stroud at last, and after the confrontation with Erimond—_of all people_—they had a short respite at camp together in which Dorian made a point of introducing himself to Hawke and thanking him for “explaining things” to Max.

“Oh, are you the fellow he was interested in?” Hawke’s caked-on grimness lifted a bit at the subject. “Maker, I can see why he was swayed.”

_What a charming fellow…when he stops growling_. “You flatter me, ser. Is your lover not with you?”

“No, and for once I’m glad,” Hawke winced. “Fenris doesn’t take to Tevinter mages, I’m afraid. He was a magister’s slave. I’d give even odds he’s gutting a slaver somewhere as we speak.”

“Good for him,” Max spoke up, arriving to catch this much of the conversation. He sat next to Dorian by the campfire and kissed him briefly. “Slavery is horrible.”

Hawke looked at the Inquisitor in confusion. “Isn’t he a magister’s son?” he asked, indicating Dorian.

“I am…”

“So?” Max answered at the same time.

“You don’t own any slaves?” Hawke sounded skeptical. Dorian sighed.

He explained what he had told the Chargers—that his family’s slaves were well-treated, and that he was firmly opposed to illegal slave trading, at the least. Max seemed a bit shocked that he didn’t condemn the whole business—and Dorian explained as best he could. How he’d never thought about it before; how it simply was the way it was, and there were rules, after all. If they would be followed, it wouldn’t be nearly as bad a system as it was.

“And you think that makes it all right?” Max was beginning to look horrified.

Dorian brought up the South—the alienages. How the poor—particularly if they were elven—were practically constrained by law to starvation and victimization. Contrast that with the Pavus steward. “As a starving child on the streets, he was able to sell himself to a noble house—generally taken as an act of charity on our part. It can be difficult to acquire such a prestigious master. He grew up healthy, even educated to an extent, and gained greater responsibility. Now he’s better off than some freeborn merchants. If he’d been in a Southern alienage, he’d have died. Or turned to crime, I suppose, and survived only if he was lucky.”

Hawke listened to this, but looked unconvinced. Max, on the other hand, listened and finally said, “Oh. I suppose that makes sense.”

“One or two good magisters cannot redeem the abuses of the many bad ones,” Hawke pointed out.

“Quite so. That is why we so desperately need reform. In many areas,” Dorian murmured.

“Easy to say,” Hawke growled. His grimness had returned.

Dorian chuckled. “_Here_, yes, it is easy to say. In Tevinter, it’s quite dangerous even to speak that much. Never mind the perils of doing something about it. Still,” he added, “there is so much good in my homeland. When I imagine what it would be like without all the corruption…” He smiled a little. “It might be worth the risk.”

Hawke still looked grim, but a perceptive eye would see his expression soften a little. Mollified. Max, on the other hand, looked worried. “Well, it sounds like much too big a task for one man anyway.”

“Yes…I suppose.” _Of course, if I were the head of House Pavus, and House Tilani joined me, it would be considerably more difficult for our enemies to swiftly silence us…_

Dorian was distracted for a moment, recalling the other moderate or “progressive” houses and their heirs, wondering if they could manage a third strong ally—it would be real progress if they could—and he failed to notice Hawke and Max changing the subject until Max called him back with an arm around his waist.

“…_so_ good, you were right. We can’t get enough of each other.” A kiss. “Right?” Max’s other hand slipped subtly over his hip.

“Hmm? Oh.” Dorian smiled. “Yes, we’re quite shockingly insatiable.”

Max grinned. “Jealous yet, Champion?”

Hawke shook his head, also smiling, and sighed. “I’m happy for you, but I wouldn’t trade Fenris for any soulmate.”

Dorian blinked. _Ah. His lover isn’t a soulmate._ There was nothing wrong with that—not everyone had them, naturally. But Max sighed. “You say that, but you don’t know how amazing it is…”

“Max,” Dorian interrupted. “Your manners are terrible.”

Hawke chuckled—the closest he’d come so far to a real laugh. “I hear great things, it’s true,” he agreed. “But even if a mark came along to point one of us in another direction, I don’t think Fenris or I would be interested. You don’t need a mark to be with a partner you love.”

Max seemed like he would have argued, but Dorian snuck his hand over his thigh and began to rub inward, silently reminding Max that they were in camp, and usually didn’t spend their evenings lingering by the fire in conversation like this. Max picked up on the message and cut the conversation short. Hawke wished them good night, and they spent the last hour before sleep in their tent together, having sex.

Perfect, as always.

\--

The did not linger in the Western Approach. The situation at Adamant was dire, and they hurried back to Skyhold to prepare for the assault. They weren’t there long, but it was long enough for Dorian to discover that Max had assumed Dorian would share his room from now on. Dorian himself had not necessarily assumed otherwise, but he didn’t take such steps for granted quite the way Max did.

There was no argument. Just a moment of realization, and then Dorian compliantly moved into the lavish room atop the tower. “We have to make the most of the time we have,” Max murmured onto his skin. Dorian blinked, thinking for a moment that this was a rather fatalistic thing to say while naked, before Max added, “Children have a way of cutting down a lot on adult private time.”

_Ah. Of course._ “Children,” he echoed, carefully neutral.

Max grinned and kissed him. “Yeah. _Children_.” He seemed amused. “What’s the matter? You knew that about me already.”

“That’s true…I did.”

Lying pressed against him, Max played with his hair and asked, a little cautiously, “You do like children, don’t you?”

“_Ha_,” Dorian huffed. “I hardly know. I’ve scarcely ever been around any.”

“But you’ll try, won’t you?” Max murmured, so sweetly. “You know how much I want them…”

Dorian managed a smile. “I have no objection…I’m just trying to picture this little household you’ve envisioned. Do we bring them along on dragon hunts?”

Max laughed. “What? Don’t be silly.” He leaned over Dorian, smiling down at him. “I don’t plan on being a world-saving hero forever, you know. Once we deal with Corypheus, I plan to retire from the hero business. We’ll have the nicest house in Ostwick—if you don’t mind living so near my family. If you want, though, I guess as the former Inquisitor I could settle down wherever you liked. Val Royeaux, or…mmm, but you don’t like Orlais that much, right?” He snickered. “You want to get a place in Ferelden? We could be noble barbarians together.”

“Who in their right mind would raise a child in Ferelden?” Dorian managed to joke, but to himself he was thinking, _There’s no question about Tevinter. Even if he would come. We couldn’t possibly…not there._

__\--

They won, at Adamant.

Of course, a great deal happened. It was an enormous venture that nearly got the Inquisitor killed—and Dorian, for that matter, because he fell into the Fade alongside Max. But they recovered lost memories and defeated demons left and right and emerged alive, battle won.

And Dorian decided not to mention that the fearlings he’d incinerated in the Fade had almost all looked like…children.

It made sense. He hadn’t been given the happiest upbringing; of course the prospect of raising his own family made him nervous. That was nothing to base a decision on. His soulmate wanted children, and if it worked out that way, Dorian would rise to the occasion and make a better father than his own had been.

More importantly—should he really set aside the entire nation of Tevinter, and all the suffering it was home to in its present miserable condition, just to be a father? There were so few in his position, with the potential power to effect change. And there were many who could be fathers.

Well. He would wait and see how things went.

Back in Skyhold, he was startled to observe his soulmate in the courtyard, stick in hand, beating Iron Bull in the chest and stomach. _What in the Maker’s name is this about?_ he worried. He had never seen Bull and Max butt heads over anything to this extent. Max might have been a little jealous at first, but he was long over that, Dorian was _sure…_

He slipped down and listened to the tail end of the beating and immediately relaxed. _Oh, it isn’t about me. It’s about the Fade. That’s all right then_. Although it did surprise him to learn that the ordeal had bothered Bull that much.

Dorian wanted to ask about it—not that he was worried for the spy’s sake, and after all, Bull looked relieved afterward—but Max noticed him and whisked him away. Dorian didn’t find an opportunity for a while, because he and Max were together almost constantly—perhaps even more so since the Fade. The poor fellow had not liked that experience; he was a rogue, not a mage.

Fortunately, Iron Bull eventually invited Max for a drink with the Chargers, and Max dragged Dorian along—not that it was difficult. Max himself was the only reason Dorian didn’t spend more time in the tavern as it was.

The Chargers were exceptionally nice to the Inquisitor, and Dorian was relieved to see that they were even pretty tolerant of his own presence. At the very least, none of them seemed to hate the Inquisitor for his taste in lovers. Max had also apparently established a pretty friendly relationship with Krem already, due to Krem’s involvement in planning and leading missions with the Chargers. As the evening wore on, Max started to tease Krem about Maryden, the bard, in a friendly and encouraging way that the rest of the Chargers were delighted to participate in. “I could talk to her for you, you know.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I mean, I’m the sacred leader and stuff. She’d tell _me_ what she thought of you, for sure.”

Krem was red in the face, the other Chargers eager to see this happen right now. Dorian followed the banter for a while, but he was enjoying his drink and was gradually finding it more and more difficult _not_ to be distracted by Iron Bull, shirtless as always. That wouldn’t do at all. He had Max.

Dorian was almost certain the word _soulmate_ was never spoken, but apparently Max unconsciously dropped other hints. Whether or not the Chargers figured it out, Dorian didn’t know. But Bull eventually leaned over and said to him in a low voice, “I didn’t know it was like that for you two.”

“Hmm?” Dorian looked up from his drink—_forcibly_ skipping over the chest and landing on the face without a moment of pause. “Like what?”

“You and the boss are soulmates, aren’t you?”

_Oh_.

Frankly, Dorian had forgotten about the secrecy. Max hadn’t really told him to keep it a secret. Dorian didn’t really have anyone to tell or any reason to gloat. Max hadn’t told anyone that Dorian knew of, but he hadn’t avoided the topic in a suspicious way. It was just now, in this moment, that Dorian realized they had only spoken of it to Hawke, with no one else present, and Hawke had probably told no one before leaving, and aside from him it was quite possible that no one actually knew.

_Are there reasons?_ Dorian calculated rapidly. His lack of a soul mark might be part of the problem. Max’s position as Inquisitor and Dorian’s homeland were probably a _big_ reason for secrecy. All things considered, Dorian shouldn’t tell. And Bull was Ben-Hassrath.

“Don’t be silly,” he smiled calmly. “You saw for yourself that I don’t have a soul mark.”

A warm glance down, just for a moment. “Yeah, I saw. Guess that explains where you even got the idea of soulmates where only one person has a mark. You asked me about that, remember? And Krem mentioned you brought it up with him, too. Must have been bothering you.”

_Vishante kaffas._

“Hey.” A heavy hand rested on his shoulder. “If it’s a secret, I won’t tell anybody.”

Dorian arched a severe eyebrow. “No, no one! Only your superiors, and therefore every Ben-Hassrath agent in Thedas.”

The hand dropped. “Sorry, big guy.” Then: “Got some reason to hide it?”

He sighed. “I can think of several—as I’m sure you can too, if you apply yourself.”

“You still don’t have a mark?”

He answered with only a glance, then frowned into his drink. 

“You two seem pretty happy, though.”

“Didn’t I tell you as much? That’s what soulmates are for.” Dorian gazed at the animated smile of his destined companion as he laughed with the Chargers.

“So you’re getting the hang of monogamy?” Bull grinned at him, winking.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then, with a bland smile, “I’m not sleeping with you again, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Nah.” Bull didn’t seem bothered at all. Of course he didn’t. “Just interested in how you’re doing with the whole thing. I’ve been thinking you two make a cute couple, but right now you seem a little tense about something. But he doesn’t seem like he’d be capable of hurting you, so…”

“Oh, he isn’t,” Dorian frowned in surprise. “Never fear, he adores me. He wants to marry me and raise a family together.” _Kaffas, Dorian Pavus. Shut your mouth, the qunari is a spy._

“Sounds nice.”

“Mmm.”

“…But?”

Dorian calculated what he could safely say to a Ben-Hassrath. “If we did that, I would never return to Tevinter.”

“You want to?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “It depends somewhat on circumstances. But, given my birth, there is the possibility that I might have a seat in the Magisterium someday. If that happened, I might be able to work for reform. Correct some of Tevinter’s evils.”

A slow nod. “That would be great.”

He smirked. “I’m surprised you think so. We hardly see eye to eye.”

“Eyes to eye.” A wink.

Dorian sighed. “As you like.”

Bull accepted that and answered, “Yeah, we disagree, but I bet I disagree a lot more with most of the other magisters. And I know you’re a good guy. It would be pretty great to have you trying to make a difference in Tevinter.”

A warm feeling filled Dorian’s chest. He felt rather foolishly happy. He had to bury a silly smile to hide it. “Well. I would probably just get myself killed. My darling soulmate, as you might imagine, isn’t fond of that idea.”

“Really?” Bull frowned. “I don’t get that. It’s a good job for you. Maybe even your purpose. Don’t people want their soulmates to fulfill their purpose?”

Stumped for a moment, Dorian finally answered in a weak voice, “Well, perhaps, but not if it means losing them.”

Bull shook his head. “Ehh, see, that’s not how I’d see it. Wanting to keep someone to yourself even if it means they can’t do what they need to do?” He made a huffing sort of growl.

“Quite the opposite of the Qun’s teaching, isn’t it?” Dorian hummed, smiling a little. Amused, a little.

“I guess.”

“Well.” Dorian drained his cup. “Who can know what will happen?” Then he added: “But it would be difficult to go back to Tevinter. It would be easier to marry Max and raise a family. Not to mention safer.”

“You could take him with you,” Bull suggested. But Dorian slowly shook his head.

“I don’t believe so. Even if I found a way, we couldn’t be together in the way he wants.”

“That’s a big problem.”

“Yes.”

“Thought stuff like that usually worked itself out for soulmates?”

Dorian hummed. “I don’t know that soulmates never face disagreements or obstacles. I believe the idea is that whatever happens, they find themselves blissfully happy with the result. Thus, one might think that they would be unhappy if they agreed to something the other wants, but they find out eventually that it makes them happier than they thought was possible. That sort of result.”

“So…if boss is your soulmate, you could settle down with some kids and never regret ignoring Tevinter?”

“I suppose.”

“_If_ he is,” Bull added, in a lower tone that was almost too soft to catch.

Dorian didn’t say anything to that. He had accepted that he and Max were soulmates. But, after all—Dorian still had no mark.

\--

“Max?”

“Yes?”

Dorian put on a smile. “Do you realize we’ve never had a fight?”

Sweet-faced and happy: “Yeah! Isn’t it great?”

They were on the balcony of their room, watching a beautiful, perfect sunrise. Dorian maintained a pleasantly neutral appearance. “It seems rather odd to me.”

“I suppose,” Max immediately agreed with him, “but we _are_ soulmates. That’s probably the reason.”

“It seems a pity,” Dorian murmured, brushing his hand over the smooth marble railing.

“A pity? Not to fight?” Max laughed. “Why?”

Dorian hummed. “People grow through conflict. You learn things you wouldn’t learn otherwise.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know…how to be respectful of the other person, even when you’re angry. How to lose gracefully, and accept that you were wrong, rather than becoming bitter. Character-building things like that, I suppose.”

Max gave him a funny look. “So…you want us to have a fight?”

Dorian chuckled a little, but there was no humor in it. “I rather doubt that we _could_.”

“I don’t know about that,” Max said. “I guess we could find differences just like any other two people, if we went looking for them.”

“Such as?”

“Umm…” Max screwed up his face and thought. And paused for a long moment, still thinking. “Umm…” And then he thought some more. “Oh! Blood magic is totally evil!” He smiled, pleased with himself.

“Pardon?”

“You said one time that it wasn’t so bad as all that. But the Chantry forbids it completely, so it must be totally evil and against the Maker’s will. That’s what I think, anyway.” He said it with a triumphant smile, obviously waiting for Dorian to disagree.

“The Chantry is choosing to err on the side of caution,” Dorian replied in a bland tone. _Neither of us has any stake in this topic._ “Blood magic doesn’t come from demons—only blood. It’s simply a different fuel. You can burn wood, or peat, or straw with varying effects. Magic is no different.”

“But maleficarum turn into abominations!” Max still looked proud of himself, rendering the “argument” rather silly.

“I’m inclined to think that most of those who turn to blood magic in the South do so in desperation, with no knowledge. They could be trying to escape the Circle, and simply because blood magic was always so forbidden, they think it must hold some wonderful secret power that will save them. A recipe for disaster, I’m afraid.”

“But the Circle is right. Andraste _did_ say it was bad.”

“Andraste was battling Tevinter, and magisters at the time often kept whole collections of slaves on hand for sacrifices. Even in Tevinter, no one dares to be so open with it now. And when it comes to human sacrifice, I quite agree with Andraste. Nor do I want to defend demon summoning. But blood magic is more than just those evils. It is quite possible to use one’s own blood harmlessly.”

Max made a face. “Ew. Really?”

Dorian shrugged. “Of course. You can devise a barrier from many kinds of magic—those in the Exalted Plains, for example. We didn’t run into a barrier made with blood magic, but it’s possible to construct such a thing, just as one can construct a fire or ice barrier. And then you would need blood magic to break the barrier. A little cut on the arm, and there you go. No one needs to die for it.”

“Oh.” Max frowned. “Huh. Well…it’s still kind of gross.”

“I’ve had ordinary mana exhaustion that felt considerably worse than a simple cut,” Dorian observed. “But as a non-mage, I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Hmmm. So, there’s no danger in using your own blood, as long as you don’t use others or demons.”

“More or less what I said already,” Dorian agreed.

“I guess that’s reasonable.”

Max nodded to himself, and Dorian sighed, studying his handsome face. “So much for our first fight.”

With a wince: “I guess that wasn’t really a fight.”

“I wouldn’t even call it a disagreement, no,” Dorian chuckled.

“Well…but _I_ learned something! That was the point, wasn’t it?”

Dorian gave up. “I did say something like that, didn’t I?”

\--

Several things happened all at once, not long after that.

The Qun contacted Iron Bull and offered an alliance. While Max was sorting out the proposed trip, Dorian received a letter—via Mother Giselle and then Max. For whatever reason, the Mother had thought Max would hide the matter from Dorian. But then, she didn’t know they were soulmates.

Weighed in a proper balance, Dorian’s ill-timed family drama was nothing compared to the prospect of a game-changing alliance with the Qun, but to Max, his soulmate’s personal concerns were of utmost importance. So, he set the plan.

Krem would take the Chargers north of Lake Calenhad to the Storm Coast, while Max went south with Dorian. Then, as soon as they were done with things in Redcliff, they would ride north along the east side of Lake Calenhad and join the Chargers either at the Storm Coast or on the road before it, if they made good time. Max was only traveling with Dorian, Bull, and Cassandra, so they should be able to move quickly and take advantage of established Inquisition camps to save time.

Then, if all went well, they’d head southwest again, having made a big loop through Ferelden, around Lake Calenhad, and no time lost on trivialities.

All did not go well.

As far as travel, it was fine, but Redcliff held a surprise for them—one Dorian was not quite prepared for, in comparison to some “family retainer.”

“Father.”

It all came out, with the usual hostility, and Max’s handsome face went utterly horrified when he understood everything. “Wait…he tried to _change _you? With blood magic? Against your will?” Max clutched his hip as though covering an open wound.

“I wanted what was best for my son. I was only trying to help you, Dorian!”

“You wanted what was best for _you!_ For your fucking legacy; anything for that,” Dorian spat.

Max reached for him, looking absolutely stricken. Dorian almost jerked away—he was so angry, he didn’t want to be touched…but. Max didn’t know that. Max was hurting for him. He held still, and Max wrapped his arms around Dorian. “He would have taken us from each other,” he murmured, near tears. “Oh, love…”

It was soft, but Dorian heard it, and his father heard it too, he knew. Dorian felt like he’d suddenly swallowed a rock. _Of all the moments to use that word for the first time._ He glanced at his father and had the most awful feeling of being five years old again, and wanting to hide the Inquisitor behind his back. His father’s expression darkened. “I should have known,” he all but growled.

“No.” Dorian was harsh, denying flatly, “You don’t get to make those assumptions. Not about him. Not about _us_.”

Through teeth: “It is not an assumption, it is a _pattern_…”

“He’s my soulmate!”

That was Max—blurting the truth in a quavering voice. Dorian froze. His father’s eyes went wide. “What?” All the force had gone out of his voice, leaving it a whisper.

Dorian stared back at his father. Max was tugging on him. “Dorian, love, let’s go. I’m so sorry I ever brought you here. Come away, my love…please.”

For a long moment, Dorian watched his father. Halward Pavus said nothing. He looked utterly shaken.

Finally, Dorian turned stiffly toward Max, and as gently as he could, said, “Would you…wait for me outside? I’d like a moment with my father.”

It was plain from his stricken look that Max did _not_ understand the reason for the request. But he bit back his shock and struggled to say, “If that’s what you want…”

“Please.” Dorian managed a smile…and placed a hand on Max’s hip. “I’ll be out shortly,” he whispered.

Miserable, Max left.

Turning to his father, Dorian smiled bitterly. “So much for my ‘pattern’ of playing the whore, yes?”

Too pained to affect composure, Halward Pavus took a step closer. “He is your soulmate?”

“Surprise, surprise, father.”

“Let me see.”

“What?”

“You have a mark. Let me see it.”

Dorian stood ramrod straight. “No.”

“I won’t believe it until I see…”

“Then don’t believe it; I hardly care.” Dorian glared at his father. “You’re not my nanny, you never changed my nappies, and I’m not obligated to show you anything. If you think I would actually lie about a thing like _this_, there is really no point in continuing this discussion. Not a word out of my mouth will count for shit to you, if you really think I would pretend to have a soulmate just to spite you.”

Halward Pavus seemed to crumple, slightly. The lines on his face folded together, deepening in defeat. “Very well. So—the Maker has given you to that man. Now, I suppose, I will never get you back.”

“With or without him, I wouldn’t have come back with you. I joined the Inquisition because it’s the right thing to do, father.”

“Yes,” his father sighed. “Perhaps.”

He stared at his father. “You used to care about what was right,” he said softly. Bitter.

“I still do.” Weary eyes looked up at him. “Too many battles, Dorian. And you, so stubborn—just like me. I could not fight corruption and blood magic and take up your cause too. It is dangerous to fight even one evil at a time.” He shook his head. “I am sorry, my son. I wish I had stood with you. But I would have been forced to abandon my allies to other enemies. So I betrayed your trust instead of theirs.” He rested a hand on a rough-hewn table—and perhaps more of his weight than it seemed. “And now the Maker gives you this man. It could not be clearer. I chose wrong.”

Dorian swallowed, refusing his stinging eyes. “Did you really need a magic mark to tell you that?”

Halward Pavus sank into a wooden chair. “I came here without knowing of it—to ask you to forgive me. But now…you have him. You will never come back. I no longer have an heir. Our house will be replaced in the Magisterium. The reforms I have fought for will die.”

Catching his breath, Dorian blinked. “You don’t…know that.”

A weary smile. “I do know you a little, my son. I know what you have always wanted…and there he is.”

Halward nodded toward the door Max had gone out by. Dorian looked that way, and quietly said, “He is…not _all_ I want.”

\--

When Dorian emerged from the tavern, Bull caught the scent of alcohol on him almost immediately. The Inquisitor rushed to him and wrapped him in his arms, and Bull hung back and reflected that they probably shouldn’t have left Dorian alone with a magister and a tavern full of liquor.

He had that little pouch on his hip—usually for potions, but a flask would fit in there. And his fancy-ass robes could have a secret pocket or two. He hadn’t drunk enough yet to be unsteady, at least.

They rode north, and sure enough, Dorian produced a flask and started hitting it pretty hard. The boss was all over him, being sweet and caring and apologizing for the whole ordeal like it was his fault Dorian’s father had shown up without telling anyone. Bull listened and managed to pick up a pretty clear picture of what had gone down in there.

By the time they camped, Dorian was drunk. He almost fell off his horse. The boss was still gluing himself to Dorian’s side, but was forced to release him in order to get camp set up. He had messages to send by raven, and urgent things to reply to. With a worried look, he entrusted Dorian to Bull—when it became clear that Dorian could barely walk. Bull took care of his horse, forced him to drink some water, and practically carried him to the first tent as soon as it was set up. Dorian tumbled to the floor none too gracefully and began to giggle. Bull sighed, sat down cross-legged, and tried to get the guy to sit up. The strap of his robes was dangerously high, close to choking him.

“You really don’t mess around when you start hitting the whiskey, huh?” he mumbled, managing to unclasp the buckle and relieve Dorian of his outer robes. Another flask _thunked_ to the ground as they came off.

Teetering, Dorian planted a hand on Bull’s knee and reached for the flask—then reached again when he missed it. “I…no. Hand me…that.”

Bull picked it up and set it behind himself. “I think you’ve had enough.”

“I’m not in a…stupid yet. Stupper.”

“Stupor?”

“That.”

“Well, take a break. The last fifteen minutes haven’t hit you yet. You might be in a stupor by the time the boss gets here.”

Dorian blinked at him. Blinked again. Then he went boneless and flopped into Bull’s arms.

“He’s my soulmate.”

“Yeah,” Bull sighed, trying to get Dorian upright again.

“He’s in love with me.”

“I heard.” The boss had been using that word a lot on the ride out of Redcliff—Bull had noticed.

“I shall…marry him. Have babies. Be happy.”

“Good for you,” Bull hummed, giving up on getting Dorian to sit up. He let the guy tumble downward, and Dorian ended up with his head in Bull’s lap. All Bull could do was rearrange him to be more comfortable.

“Fate is nice. Makes things so easy.”

“Great.”

Dorian was silent for a minute. He turned a little, curling up. His face pressed Bull’s leg. “It’s annoying,” he pouted.

Bull glanced down. “Hmm? What is?”

“Fate.” Dorian frowned. His hair fell in his eyes, and he blew ineffectually at it. Bull pushed it back from his face. “Mm. Fate. It’s so easy.”

“You just said that was nice,” Bull pointed out. Dorian’s hair was continuing to misbehave, so he continued to push it back. The easy, repetitive touch seemed to soothe Dorian, so he kept at it, running his hand through soft, dark hair.

“It’s nice, but…so is winning. Tough battles. That’s nice. Doing hard things. Feels good. Fighting. What’s the point of being brilliant if you never have to try at anything?”

“Uh…don’t know.” Bull kept stroking Dorian’s hair.

“I’m not perfect.”

“You’re not?”

“No.” Grey eyes looked up at him. “I’m wrong sometimes. I’m not perfect. But he accepts me.”

“…Good?”

A heavy frown. “No.” A flailing arm reached up. Dorian tried to catch Bull’s hand and smacked himself in the face. “Ow.”

Bull took his hand.

“You challenge me.”

“…Sure.”

Dorian stared at him for a long moment. Bull guessed he’d forgotten what they were talking about. Then Dorian blinked, so slow, and turned on his side again. “I’m glad I don’t have a mark,” he mumbled. And his eyes drifted shut.

Bull sighed, and kept petting his hair. He’d let the guy sleep, and the boss would show up in a minute, and Bull would transfer Dorian to him. What else could he do? This guy wasn’t his problem. The Qunari alliance was his problem, and coming up fast, now. His report on this mission for the Ben-Hassrath was the next thing to worry about.

But…just for now, Bull stroked Dorian’s hair, and smiled a little at the Vint mage sleeping in his lap. _What a fighter, _he thought, and, _He’d be fun to keep around_.

And then, as he combed his claws gently through Dorian’s hair, he noticed a dark spot. On the back of his scalp, in among the thick roots of dark hair, the light skin was marred by a darker streak. It almost looked like dirt, for a moment, but it didn’t come off when he rubbed it. The hair parted along that line, and it was…lettering.

Slowly, methodically, Bull separated the follicles down by their roots. He found where the letters began. He traced them to their very end. _So that’s it._ Under the hair on the back of his head…

_Maxwell Trevelyan._

__And now Bull was left to think:

_Fuck. Do I tell him?_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nngh, Arthdal Chronicles continues tomorrowwwww! *shivers* And summer is finally going awaayyyy! I'm gettin my inspiration baaaack! :D

“The Tevinter Imperium is bad enough without the influence of this Venatori cult.”

Dorian forced himself to stop rubbing his temples for a moment and growled, “Yes, filthy, decadent brutes, the lot of them. I’m certain life would be much better for all of us under the Qun.” He had a terrible hangover. And it was _raining_.

The little elven Ben-Hassrath stuck to his position—unfortunately. “The Qun isn’t perfect, but it gave me a better life.”

Dorian felt sick. “Yes, one free from all that pointless free will and independent thought. Such an improvement.” From the look of him, this Gatt was intelligent. Iron Bull was too, though he didn’t look it until he got pulled into a debate. It annoyed Dorian to hear smart people defend the system that took away all their freedom to think. And it gnawed at him in an even deeper way that this elf had embraced the Qun because his life in the Imperium was so much worse. _We’re at war with the Qunari, and our own evils are driving people off to swell the Qun’s ranks. If Tevinter were a better place, our enemies would never be able to draw people away like this._

Max looked torn. Dorian could practically see him longing to agree with his beloved soulmate, but the former slave in front of them made it hard to say anything. “Um…maybe we should focus on…the red lyrium.”

So they did, and set the plans. Dorian swallowed a wave of nausea and made a note that the Ben-Hassrath elf was doing a good job acting calm and unaffected despite the presence of a _bas saarebas_ from Tevinter. But of course, they couldn’t entirely ignore each other, could they?

“You must wish you were back in Tevinter, mage.” _Ah, here it comes._ “No soldiers to guard you here, no slaves to wait on you.”

Dorian smiled acidly. _Did you not see me just reign fire and death on this entire Venatori camp?_ “It’s the lack of fashion that really strikes fear into my heart,” he answered instead. _And if I wanted to go somewhere, I would go. _But perhaps that was too much free will for Gatt to understand.

“You know nothing of fear.”

Max glanced between them, obviously worried, but Dorian felt a shiver of delight. Finally, the Qun’s little puppet was showing his true colors—and he had a set of teeth in there after all, didn’t he? “And do you intend to teach me?” he purred, relishing the idea. The elf had some impressive moves. It would be counter-productive to get into a fight with him right now… _But wouldn’t it be interesting?_

__Alas, the elf backed off, his veneer of disinterest falling back into place. “No. You serve the Inquisition, and the Ben-Hassrath wish an alliance. For now, that is enough.”

Max visibly relaxed. Dorian concealed his annoyance—and his headache. And Iron Bull…

He stood expressionless through all this, saying nothing. _Logical_, Dorian supposed. He was Qunari; he couldn’t say something unfavorable to the Qun. And he was an Inquisition agent, and the Inquisitor was right there. He had to stay well out of this, didn’t he?

Dorian’s irrational wish to punch him in his enormous gut was probably due to his hangover more than anything. _This mission is wretched. Could it possibly get any worse?_

Yes. Apparently.

To meet the Qun’s demands for an alliance, the Chargers would need to die.

The little elf made an impassioned plea—a very good one, Dorian noted, with an oddly detached, calm corner of his mind. _He should have been an orator, a revolutionary. He could have led a slave rebellion, made a difference in Tevinter…if he hadn’t left._ Somehow, he managed to make such an observation—all while he was frozen in horror, staring at Iron Bull, transfixed and unable to look away.

“They’re _my men_.”

For a terrifying moment, Dorian thought that wasn’t going to be enough. How many times had he and Bull spoken of the Qun already? He knew what it meant, and he knew not to expect ordinary feelings and loyalties to be strong enough to sway Bull from obedience. Dorian had not let himself be taken in by the easygoing mercenary act. He was almost sure that he was about to watch the Chargers die—for some horrible “greater good” commanded by distant superiors who would never see or feel the loss.

And then…it didn’t happen. Bull raised the horn and called the retreat and Dorian watched, wide-eyed and breathless, as a born and bred Qunari looked into the face of the powers that tried to determine his course and just said _Fuck you_ to all of it.

_Fuck you. I’ll choose for myself._

With a racing heart, Dorian watched Bull do the hardest thing he’d ever done, and it was, perhaps, the most beautiful sight Dorian had ever seen.

\--

It was a quiet camp, that night. The Chargers were traveling back with them, but they were in low spirits. The mission had failed, after all. They’d all seen the dreadnought explode. They hadn’t quite figured out the full story, however. Dorian hesitated over telling them. He could hear them discussing the question in low tones. If he could have caught Krem away from the others—who all still hated him—he would have explained…

But as they were setting up their camps that night, it was Max who went over to the Chargers’ tents and appeared to be explaining everything to them. Dorian smiled, proud of him and pleased that he was so attentive to his people. Then he glanced around and found Bull sorting gear and unloading things into their proper places for camp. No expression on his face, his movements mechanical.

Dorian went to help.

He said nothing at first, but within a minute he’d noticed something. Blinking in surprise, he said, “Oh…your soul mark. It’s gone.”

In the middle of setting down some supplies, Bull paused. His face didn’t flicker. “Is it,” he said, and slowly began to move again.

“So much for that,” Dorian commented, watching closely.

Bull nodded. “Yeah.”

“You don’t seem pleased.”

Hesitating again, Bull sighed and sank down onto a fallen log he’d dragged into camp earlier—for sitting by the fire, if the rain ever let up enough for them to light one. “I’m…Tal-Vashoth,” he said, heavily. “I have no purpose now, no orders.”

“What about the Inquisition?”

A slow nod. “Yeah. For now. But when this is over…I don’t know. And on the way here, I thought, ‘Well, maybe that Adaar guy will need help with something.’” He wiped a hand down his face. “Soulmates are supposed to be a ‘rest-of-your-life’ kind of thing. So I thought…maybe things wouldn’t be so bad.”

“But the mark disappeared.” Bull finally looked at his arm, twisting it to get the full scope of his massive bicep. After a long stare, he nodded. “You didn’t look at it before?” Dorian asked.

“Got used to ignoring it. Didn’t think it would disappear like that.”

“What a cruel twist,” Dorian murmured, still watching Bull closely.

A shrug. “I’ll live.”

Nodding, Dorian sat beside him. There was an ache in his gut, a tight feeling in his chest. The memory of what had happened that day kept replaying in his mind. Dorian felt hot, despite the cold, drizzling rain. He didn’t know what to say. The thoughts running through his head…

With a glance, Dorian located the others. The Chargers’ camp was beside theirs—a few trees and tents stood in the way, rendering most people more or less out of sight for the moment. Even so, this log in the middle of the main camp was hardly private.

But it was getting hard to breathe, hard to keep his hands steady. Sharp-eyed, Dorian checked around again, and then, in one swift motion, he reached for Bull, grasped the back of his neck with one hand, and kissed him. Hard, full, and open-mouthed. Startled, Bull let him; Dorian kissed him hungrily for one moment, then just as quickly pulled away. And they were again two comrades sitting on a log in the rain.

“Uh…”

“I apologize,” he said immediately, eyes glancing around the camp again. No one seemed to have noticed, _Good._ Dorian chuckled faintly to himself. “I _have_ admired a few men platonically in the past, but I’m afraid none of them were men I had also previously slept with.”

“Okay…”

“Which is to say, I may not be very good at expressing my admiration for you without resorting to…what I just resorted to.”

Confused, Bull looked at him. “You…admire me?”

“Oh yes,” Dorian breathed, “very much.”

“…That’s new.”

Dorian finally looked directly at Bull. “What you did today must have been terribly difficult for you. It will probably continue to be so for at least a little while. But…the choice you made…to protect your men…” Dorian scraped for words. “You did not want to be Tal-Vashoth, but for their sakes…” He swallowed, suddenly tearing his gaze away and looking back out over the rainy camp. “Pardon me. I was about to kiss you again.”

A soft snort. “Wouldn’t bother me if you did. But I’m not the one whose opinion matters.”

“There is that,” Dorian admitted. He took a deep breath. “I want to have the courage you displayed today. To determine my own path, without reference to some…fated love, or any other destiny.” He smiled a little. “Perhaps…that is the reason I don’t have a mark of my own.”

Bull shifted, clearing his throat. “Yeah…about that.”

Dorian glanced at him. “What about it?”

One kind eye examined him. “You do have a soul mark.”

“…What?” Dorian felt very blank.

Reluctantly, Bull reached out and touched the back of his head. “It’s here, under your hair. I found it when you were drunk after Redcliff.”

“Whose…name.”

Gently: “Maxwell Trevelyan.”

“Oh.”

Dorian stared out at the camp. Bull removed his hand. Max reappeared and began to head their way.

In a rough and wavering voice, Dorian simply said, “So much for that.” Then he stood and answered Max’s question about the readiness of their tent.

\--

In a tent, dry and warm, with the rain pattering outside, Dorian lay under the body of a perfectly wonderful man who adored him; the sex was exactly as delightful as it always was; and Dorian tried, and tried, and tried.

And back in Skyhold, in a beautiful, comfortable room, with the same wonderful man between his legs whispering endearments, Dorian still tried.

_I must be mad_, he thought. _All my life, I’ve dreamt of this, and here it is, and I’m happy. It’s easy._

While Max was in a War Room meeting, Dorian slipped away from the library and went back to his old room. It was cold and smelled musty, and it had never been furnished well or made very comfortable in the first place. He hadn’t lived in it all that long. He’d forgotten about the broken bedpost, or the tub he’d made such efforts to procure—now abandoned and dusty.

He sat in a chair and put his head in his hands and stared at the cold hearth, where a spider had built a web and then abandoned it. “I am happy,” he said aloud. “There is nothing to be displeased with. I wouldn’t change a thing. He’s perfect.”

And it was all true.

_So then…what is the matter with me?_

\--

“Oh, Dorian,” a quick kiss, “glad I caught you. I might be a little late for dinner, sorry.”

He set the book aside. “No matter. I’ll wait for you in the tavern?”

“Yes…I’ve got to go over things with Leliana. She’s tracking down how the Ben-Hassrath assassins got into Skyhold.”

“What assassins?” Dorian asked, alarmed.

Surprise. “Didn’t you hear?” Dorian had been in the library, and few people spoke to him even now, so—no, he hadn’t. “Well, it was only a few hours ago,” Max added. “Two assassins attacked Bull. Some formality over him being ejected from the Qun. He’s all right—he took care of them himself, didn’t even need help. But Leliana’s taking it personally that they even got in.”

“Ah.” Dorian smiled stiffly. “Well. I’ll see you when you get there.” Then, without rushing, Dorian put away his research and headed toward the tavern.

He had barely set foot in the place before he was certain Iron Bull wasn’t there. Dorian wavered a moment. He hadn’t come to see Iron Bull, after all. He’d come to get dinner and wait for Max. But…then again, Bull had been attacked. Surely, one didn’t need an excuse to visit a friend after such a thing and ask if they were all right.

Dorian went back outside and glanced around the yard again, though he already knew Bull wasn’t there—it would have been hard to miss him. So Dorian went up to the battlements and knocked on his door.

“Hey, big guy. What’s going on?”

Dorian glanced at a fresh bandage. “I heard you’d been attacked. You look all right now, though.”

“Eh, yeah. They were just a couple little guys with daggers. No problem.” Bull stepped back, an unspoken invitation to come in. Dorian hesitated. He hadn’t been in here since the second to last time they’d fucked…

Then he frowned. “The Ben-Hassrath sent _useless_ assassins?”

A shrug. “Well, no. I mean, even a dagger can be a problem for me, if they stick it in the right spot. And they definitely knew where to aim. But they needed to catch me off-guard, and I wasn’t. So it was fine.”

“By ‘fine’ I take it you killed them, and that,” he indicated the bandage, “was the worst they did to you.” Dorian stepped into the room.

“Yeah.”

He snorted. “So the Ben-Hassrath sent two of their people on what was essentially a suicide mission—barring a bit of amazing luck.”

“I guess,” Bull agreed. “If they really wanted to make sure I was dead, they should have sent five. Might have been a little tricky to sneak that many in, though…”

Dorian huffed a sigh. “I suppose those assassins led fulfilled, purposeful lives under the Qun—right up until they were ordered to their deaths for no reason at all.”

“Hey, I went Tal-Vashoth…”

“Do the Qunari not know how to write?” Dorian snapped. “Would a strongly-worded note have been insufficient? ‘Dear Tal-Vashoth, you’re Tal-Vashoth. Don’t come back, and we’re not sending you any more horn balm.’ There. I just saved two lives.”

Bull made low sound, like a growl, and turned away. He started putting away weapons—apparently he’d been cleaning and sharpening them.

“But no—the life of the individual isn’t important. And yet somehow, the whole society is perfect because _most_ people aren’t sacrificed needlessly.”

“It’s orders,” Bull said shortly. “You just obey. Doesn’t matter what the order is.” He looked at Dorian. “Orders can be nice to have. I know you don’t get that.”

Dorian’s lips thinned as he pressed them together. “I am sorry for your situation,” he answered, “but the fact that you still insist on defending the Qun in spite of such blatant hypocrisy—”

“It’s what I grew up with! It’s just…” He struggled a moment, hands clasping nothing in front of him, “…_familiar!_”

“But you are _intelligent!_” Dorian stepped forward. “You play the dumb brute quite well, I grant you, but you cannot fool me at this point. I know you are capable of comprehending—”

“Fine!” Bull didn’t shout; his voice was low, but tight, like it was difficult not to raise it. “Fine, Dorian, I get it. The Qun isn’t perfect; you win.” He stared at Dorian, strained. “And you still haven’t figured out that there are some arguments you _shouldn’t_ win.”

Dorian blinked. _Oh_.

_Well, yes. This probably isn’t helpful right now._

Without being entirely aware of what he was doing, Dorian crossed the short distance between them. Then—suddenly, _painfully_ aware of what he was doing—he grabbed Bull by harness and horn and pulled him down and kissed him.

Surprisingly, Bull kissed him back, massive hands on his hips pulling him close as Dorian aggressively, hungrily ravaged his mouth. He didn’t fully break the kiss, but gasped out, “Forgive me.” Bull didn’t really answer; he growled. Then he pushed Dorian toward the bed, missed a bit, and the bedpost jabbed Dorian in the back so hard he cried out.

“Oops. Sorry,” Bull mumbled.

“Ugh,” Dorian groaned. “That’s going to bruise.”

Their eyes met. Dorian took a deep breath. “I want…”

“Yeah.”

He was trembling with the energy of his desire. He could do it—lean in again. Kiss again. He could see that Bull wouldn’t refuse him. But it would be wrong. Not just “I’m going to regret this in the morning” wrong, either. He had custody of someone else’s heart. He didn’t care right now—not in the face of what he wanted. But it would still be wrong.

He let go. Bull did the same, immediately. “I should…get going.” Dorian cleared his throat. “Max should be showing up for dinner soon.”

“Okay.”

They just looked at each other for a long moment. Dorian drew in a deep breath and let it out.

“Dorian?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re happy with him…right?”

He smiled tightly. “Yes, but…” Then he stopped. Figuring out how to end that sentence was the problem, wasn’t it?

Bull just waited, watching him. Dorian looked at the huge qunari with the caring face. “But,” he said, without thinking, “there’s no purpose in it.”

_Oh._

“No?”

Dorian laughed hollowly, surprising himself. “There is no purpose.” He shook his head. “Maker. Perhaps the Qun is on to something after all.”

Then he left, and Bull didn’t stop him, and Max was in the tavern downstairs, having just arrived and wondering where Dorian was.

\--

The Winter Palace was no small ordeal, and the Inquisitor was under a lot of pressure thanks to that, and his position in general. Out of consideration, Dorian waited. They continued as they were for several more weeks. After all, Max was dealing with a lot, and Dorian didn’t know what to say, anyway. _I’m bored with you? No, indeed, that would be abominable._

It would be true, but much too cruel.

And after all, perhaps he was mistaken. Really, how could he be both happy and bored at the same time? It felt so odd. But there it was.

The Inquisitor declared an Inquisition holiday the day after he returned to Skyhold. He slept most of the morning away, and Dorian lay beside him and did not wake him. He spent a long time contemplating the future this man wanted with him, and when there was nothing else for it, he sat up, picked up a book, and passed the rest of the time reading.

An arm wrapping sleepily around his waist told him Max was beginning to wake, but he dozed off again for another twenty minutes, and Dorian kept to his book. When Max rolled closer and nuzzled his stomach, Dorian finally put the book down.

“How long have you been up?”

“Does it matter? I’m not the Inquisitor; your rest is more important.”

“Mmm. My _rest_, is it?” Max kissed just below his navel, and Dorian shut his eyes and reluctantly touched the man’s shoulder.

“Max…”

Suddenly still, Max hesitated a moment, then squinted up at him. “Something wrong?”

Dorian took a deep breath. “Well…yes.”

Max pushed himself up on his arms, searching Dorian’s face. “Oh no…” he murmured. Then, pleading: “Don’t say yes…” He caressed Dorian’s face. “Don’t do this, love.”

Dorian looked back at him, sadly. “You have known this was coming, I suspect.”

Hands clutched his own, tight. “It doesn’t _matter_ that you don’t have a mark! You don’t have to give up on us, Dorian!”

“It isn’t the mark,” Dorian corrected. He had never told Max what Iron Bull found. He couldn’t…give that to him, if he was only going to take it all away again. “I…can’t stay with you for the rest of our lives.” Dorian swallowed, forcing the words out. “Whether I have a seat in the Magisterium or not, I must go home when all this is done. I cannot turn my back on Tevinter. I will work for reform in whatever capacity I am able. I _must_,” he insisted, gently.

“That’s _fine_,” Max answered. “I’ll come with you!”

“Max,” he sighed, “even putting the Inquisition aside…it wouldn’t work.” He squeezed Max’s hand. “We couldn’t marry. We couldn’t be together at all, really. The best I could offer you would be the life of a kept man, a secret hidden away in the countryside, and my visits would be few and short. Your happy family simply would not exist. Even if we adopted children, you would be raising them alone. I would barely know them. And if anyone ever found out about you, your life would be in danger. The children would be in danger. It simply wouldn’t work.”

Folding away from him, Max turned and sat beside Dorian. Drawing his knees up, he rested his arms on them, and his head on his arms. “You just don’t love me,” he said, voice tight with misery.

Dorian looked at him for a long moment, and he hated to do it, but… “You’re right. I don’t.”

Rolling his head to the side to look at Dorian, Max sniffed, eyes watery. “Why?”

Daring, just a little, Dorian reached for and took his hand. “I don’t know if love is something that can be directed by reason…or explained by it. But if I were to venture a guess…I read something in a poem once. Something about how we learn about love as children, and ever after, our hearts have been shaped to a certain mold. Some may say the unpredictable heart loves wherever it will, but after all, it may be simpler than that. It may be the heart has a natural response to finding someone who fits its shape.”

Looking away: “That’s supposed to be me, then. I’m your soulmate.”

“Ideally, yes, but I think…my heart is not shaped for a soulmate at all. To me, love without adversity and struggle does not feel like love. And that is the nature of a soulmate—to fit perfectly. But the way I am…I cannot love the perfect fit.” He smiled sadly at Max. “Thus, you should blame me entirely. I believe I have failed you. I am sorry.”

Groaning, Max scrubbed at his face. “I believe you have too…but in saying that, you’ve made it bloody hard to be mad at you.”

There was more he wanted to say, but Max probably needed some time. “I’ll go,” he said, rising.

“I wish you’d stay,” came the soft reply.

“I cannot.”

Max buried his head again. “I suppose not.”

When Dorian was dressed, he stopped at the stairs and bowed. “My thanks for your kindness, Maxwell Trevelyan.”

The Inquisitor sniffled, glanced at him, and hid his red-rimmed eyes away again. “If you see Varric, send him up if he’s free.”

“Varric?”

A longer glance. “He knows what it’s like.”

“Ah.” Dorian nodded. “I will, Inquisitor.”

\--

Dorian went to the library, but it was no good. He went to his room, which needed some cleaning and firewood and wash water before it could be much use to him. Then he tried the library again. He had a letter to write to Magister Tilani. That one was easy. After that, he pulled out a blank sheet and stared at it for a while—and after a while, he put it away and retrieved his letter to Mae.

_Postscript: If you should happen to meet Magister Pavus on tolerably cordial terms, and if you would like to, you may inform him of these plans to whatever extent you wish. If you consider it a matter likely to please him, feel free to make him earn the information. There is still much to do in the South; I do not anticipate returning for some time yet, so you may handle it at your leisure._

_D._

A heavy step with a metallic clank drew his attention up—Bull, carrying two crates of books. “Hey, Dorian, glad you’re here. Where do you want these?”

“Oh,” he stood quickly, laying blotting paper over his letter and pointing to the floor. “Just down anywhere, for the moment. Let me see what we have.”

Bull grunted, setting the crates down. He pulled a crowbar from his belt and pried the top planks off. “Got two more down in the courtyard. I’ll get them?”

“By all means,” Dorian waved, brushing aside straw.

He made a quick survey of the materials, privately delighted with the prospects presented. One tome he pulled out directly and set on his desk. Bull reappeared with two more crates, which he opened. “Thank you,” Dorian moved to examine them. “Can you set that one over by that shelf and this one…actually, this one too.” He stood from the third crate and moved to the fourth.

“Yup.” Bull carried the first and third crate where indicated, then asked, “where’s this one go?”

“Oh, there,” Dorian pointed to another shelf. He was still picking through the last crate.

After a pause, Bull asked, “You want me to move that one too?”

“No…” Dorian decided, “these will all go to different shelves.” To himself, he added, “I could take some back to my room…”

Bull silently picked up the boards and cleaned up the straw. He studied the stack Dorian was making. “Those going to your room?”

“Hmm? Yes, I think so.”

“Here,” he held out his arms. “Looks like more than one trip.”

“Oh,” Dorian smiled, glancing at his pile, “I suppose it is looking that way. Thank you.”

In short order, he had filled Bull’s hands and had a stack of his own. He led the way back to his room and cleared space on a table so Bull could set everything down.

“I appreciate your help.”

“Sure. See you in the tavern later? I’m buying.”

Dorian snorted. “That’s generous. Shouldn’t it be me offering you a drink to thank you for the assistance?”

Bull shrugged, giving him a lopsided smile. “Nah. You get free drinks today, if you want ’em.” Before Dorian could repeat his confusion, Bull added, “You and the boss are done, huh?”

He went still for a moment. Then: “Ah. Did you speak to him? Or Varric?”

Eyebrows raised. “Varric?”

“It can hardly be general knowledge already.”

“Nope.” Bull waved at the room they stood in. “But this is a pretty clear sign…even if I hadn’t seen that letter you didn’t hide.”

“Oh, of course.” Dorian sighed, kicking himself for his inattention, but at least pleased that he hadn’t given it away though his manner or appearance. “Well, yes, as you’ve already gathered, I ended things with him this morning.”

“Mmm.” A pat on the shoulder. “You doing okay?”

“Of course, I’m…” He changed his response. “I have my regrets,” he admitted, “and I’ll probably wrestle with a bit of self-doubt later. But on the whole, at the moment I feel more relieved than anything.” He smiled at Bull. It wasn’t a broad smile, but it was a true one.

Bull nodded. “I’ll still buy you a drink.”

Dorian chuckled. “I’ll drink it, whatever it may be.”

Bull grinned. Then: “So, you wanna fuck?”

He almost laughed, but he stifled it and cleared his throat instead. “Oh, very much. But…”

“The boss?”

“It isn’t kind,” he explained gently. “Or you might call it bad manners. Ideally, I would like to wait until he finds someone else…but we shall see how long it takes him to do that.” He studied Bull. “I am not an especially patient man.”

“All right, big guy,” Bull grinned, slapping him on the back again. “You know where to find me.”

He headed for the door.

“Bull.”

Bull turned back. Dorian stepped closer. Pulled him down and kissed him, and did not restrain his tongue.

“My, mmm, appreciation,” he murmured, lips still brushing Bull’s mouth. “For your help.” He licked his way in again, for a moment. “With the books.”

“Sure.” A little catching noise in the back of Bull’s throat. “Didn’t know you appreciated it that much.”

On the next kiss, Dorian pushed his body into Bull’s, hard, backing him into the wall. “Mm, yes… I am generous and splendid and so forth,” Dorian mumbled—and kissed _harder_. He ran rough and greedy hands down the front of Bull’s body, reveling in the huge muscles, the scars, the shape and _size_ of him… “Can you keep a secret?” he panted into Bull’s mouth.

“Got some training in that sort of thing,” Bull purred, big hands on Dorian’s back. “Does this one involve getting naked?”

Dorian reached up and grabbed both horns. In a rough voice: “I am not a patient man _at all_.”

“So you _do_ want to get naked?”

“Well, perhaps I need to be consoled…a bit.”

“Works for me,” Bull grinned—into another demanding kiss.

Dorian devoured Bull’s mouth, hands attacking his own clothing—his lower clothing more than his upper. He was painfully hard in his trousers and dying to get out of them. He freed his cock, then Bull’s, which was considerably easier to do. With a hand around each of them, he snarled in frustration.

“What’s the problem?”

“Pardon me, I do not mean to disparage your size in any way, but your height can be bloody inconvenient at times.” This was Dorian’s way of expressing that he did not want Bull’s cock pressed against his _stomach_ at this moment, which was where it comfortably reached.

For answer, Bull stumbled and tumbled into a crudely made chair. The bed would have been better, but it was three paces away and the chair was half a pace. Dorian climbed immediately into his lap and lined up their erections and rolled his hips.

They didn’t exactly get naked. Dorian had rid himself of his pants; Bull’s had only been pushed down a bit. Dorian’s upper garments were loose, and Bull’s big hands mussed them again and again as they roamed Dorian’s body, touching him and pulling him closer. Still, they never got past half-undressed. Dorian writhed in Bull’s lap, rolling his hips deliciously and fucking into his own hands, rubbing himself against Bull as he thumbed the moist head of Bull’s cock. Massive hands eventually settled on his buttocks, squeezing and caressing as Bull watched him move.

“Fuck yeah, Dorian…shit. You holding back?”

Driving himself against that thick shaft, Dorian bit Bull’s lip. “Does it seem so?” he growled.

“You’re clenching a lot,” Bull rumbled, then grunted. “Like that.”

Panting, rutting harder against Bull: “If I come…will you?”

“Yeah.” A groan. “Promise.”

With that, it was easy. Kissing sloppily, Dorian wrapped both hands around them and pressed them together and thrust and thrust and let himself go, jerking and crying out into Bull’s mouth, arching against him and spilling all over both their cocks.

Releasing himself, Dorian stroked Bull hard and fast, his thumb a firm pressure on the underside of his shaft, his eyes flicking from Bull’s face down to his leaking cock and back again.

“Shit, I’m…!” Bull’s hips lifted up off the chair, heedless of Dorian’s weight as he came. He nearly sent Dorian to the floor, but Dorian caught himself with good balance and an arm around Bull’s neck, and managed to keep his seat as Bull ejaculated heavy spurts of warm spend into his hand and over his softening cock in a glorious mess.

They were gasping for air, sweaty and rumpled. Bull ran his tongue up and down Dorian’s throat, breathing hard, and Dorian tipped his head back and sighed, gently milking the last drops of come from Bull’s cock.

“Not bad at all.”

“I’ll say.”

When they stood up again—or tried to—Dorian’s legs went wobbly and nearly failed him, and Bull tripped a little on his falling-down pants. He tried to catch Dorian and almost knocked him over instead. They managed to right themselves, both snorting with laughter; and even once he had his footing, Dorian felt foolish, standing there naked from the waist down. He looked up to find Bull grinning down and him, and he swallowed. Cleared his throat a little, and said, still smiling, “Crisis averted.”

“That could’ve been bad,” Bull chuckled.

From the washbasin, Dorian answered, “Well, it was the thirteenth time we’ve had sex, wasn’t it? We may have escaped the worst of the bad luck.” He poured water over his hands and washed the worst of the mess off them.

“Oh yeah,” Bull said, securing his pants. “Humans think thirteen is unlucky, right?”

“Don’t Qunari?” Dorian began to gather his own clothing.

“Nope. Four is.”

“Four?” Dorian gave him a bemused look. “Why four?”

“Why thirteen?” Bull countered.

Dorian paused, blinking. “You know…I have no idea.” Then: “Do you know the reason behind four?”

“In Qunlat, the word is almost the same as the word for death.”

“Oh. That makes sense.” In the act of pulling his trousers back on, Dorian looked up at Bull, who was smiling at him. “Don’t say a word about the Qun making sense, if you please,” Dorian sighed. “We don’t need to have another fight at the moment.”

Bull laughed. “All right, big guy. Hey, good thing the fourth time was fine.”

“We didn’t die, at least,” Dorian said. He didn’t want to comment any further on the quality of “the fourth time.” It was a while ago now, but the memory was still quite…

“Just _la petite mort_, as the Orlesians say,” Bull winked.

Dorian stared at him. “You are terrible.”

“Yup!”

With a sigh, “I suppose I knew that already.” He looked at Bull again. “You will keep this a secret, won’t you? He has enough troubles, I think.”

“Hmmmm…” Bull grinned mischievously at him.

“Bull!”

The oaf laughed and came closer and wrapped a huge arm around Dorian, drawing them together. “Sorry, sorry. Just one question.”

Arching a regal eyebrow, Dorian bravely ignored the massive sweaty chest. “Which is?”

“Do you feel guilty about it?”

Stilling, Dorian looked up. Bull had his listening face on. Dorian dropped the affectations. “No,” he said, steadily. “I feel…sorry. Sorry that I couldn’t become what he wanted. What fate, apparently, wanted as well. But I have chosen, and it is a good choice. I only want to spare him additional pain. I’m confident the time will come when I no longer need to hide anything on that account.”

“All right,” Bull said. “I can do secrets, as long as they aren’t dirty ones.” He gave Dorian a gentle squeeze. “I could do those too, I guess, but they hurt the secret-keepers most. So I wouldn’t.”

Dorian studied him. “You’re a surprisingly good man. For an ass.” Then he kissed him. Bull did not argue with either response.

\--

The Inquisitor went on a flurry of small missions; Dorian did not. They spoke but rarely for a while—until Trevelyan surprised Dorian by turning up in the library and handing him a little parcel.

“What’s this?” Dorian blinked.

“It’s…yours.”

A little worried, Dorian unwrapped it to find his birthright. He sighed. “Inquisitor…”

“I found out from Leliana, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It was going to be…” He huffed. “Well, never mind. But it’s here now, and you should have it.”

Dorian swallowed the unpleasantness and smiled. “You are very good to your people, Inquisitor.” Trevelyan grunted, shrugging. “Aren’t you currently expending a great deal of effort on behalf of the lovely ambassador?”

He snorted. “Well, I would have gone with Leliana’s quick and dirty suggestion, but…Josephine wouldn’t have liked that.”

“And you would prefer to please her?”

Trevelyan looked at him morosely. “She’s very pretty. But it’s your name that’s still written on my skin.” His hand brushed lightly over his hip.

As kindly as he could, Dorian said, “My friend, you spent most of your life without a soul mark, and many people don’t have them at all. You can be very happy with someone else. The lady ambassador is a beautiful woman who is well-suited to you.” He smiled. “Your children would be quite adorable, you know.”

Trevelyan smiled, though it was somewhat spiritless. “I agree any children of _hers_ would be beautiful. And probably terribly clever. She’s a bit out of my league as a second son, actually.” He sighed. “I don’t know. I like her, but she’s always so professional and distant. I don’t think she’s interested in me. And I…don’t much want to move on.”

_Well, how can I blame him? _It was Dorian’s turn to sigh. “I know you don’t, my friend. But,” he added, “think of…well, think of our friend Hawke and his partner. He seemed quite happy, despite having no mark to bind them.”

“He didn’t have to let go of anyone,” Trevelyan countered softly.

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.” And they left it at that.

\--

The first hint of an improvement did not come until the Inquisitor and his ambassador returned from Val Royeaux, having finally dealt with the threat of assassination. Dorian noticed Trevelyan looking a bit more cheerful, even rather dreamy-eyed, but he had no opportunity to observe them together. It was Sera who commented that they were getting “a bit flirty”—as she sat on a barrel in the tavern with scrawny legs dangling. Bull glanced at Dorian and agreed. “He spends more time in her office than he used to. Don’t think she’s really aware of it yet, though.”

Varric tapped his cards into a pile and eyed Dorian without comment. The dwarf was always so cagey when he knew things. Dorian smiled placidly at the general gathering. “Good for them.”

Nothing more was said that evening, but Dorian caught a few looks from Iron Bull—quite similar to the looks he himself was endeavoring to keep hidden. He didn’t wish to be too obvious.

\--

The most encouraging development after that came in the extremely _dis_couraging shape of a certain spymaster, who appeared by Dorian’s desk one day, casually toying with a wicked-looking dagger and giving him a chilling look.

It was all Dorian could do to summon his usual genteel levity. “Is there something I can do for you, Leliana?”

“I suppose there is,” she murmured, studying him. “If you would be so good, Dorian, I would like to hear you explain your situation honestly, without resorting to your usual…games.”

“My situation?” He smiled; her eyes narrowed. Dorian swallowed and made his question short. “What part of my situation, specifically, if I may ask?”

“Your relationship with the Inquisitor.” Her expression was flat. Her voice lowered again. “I am already well aware you two are soulmates—or you were. Your recent separation is still unexplained, but I had assumed it was a lovers’ quarrel or something of that sort. But now he is turning his eyes on Josephine, and he tells me he is sincere. So I would like to know what is going on before I allow him any closer to my dear friend.”

Dorian restrained a sigh. “I would like to say that I rather doubt my relationship with the Inquisitor is something I need to explain to you…” His eyes dropped to the dagger. “But evidently you have made it your business.”

“If he left Josie alone, I would not.”

“Very well,” Dorian inclined his head. “After all, I did encourage him in her direction.”

“Did you.” Eyes turning to slits.

Dorian smiled politely, and made his explanation as brief as possible. “I have relinquished my position as the Inquisitor’s soulmate. Our future paths must diverge. I will return to Tevinter, and he wishes to settle down and have a family of his own. Thus, we have separated, and I can only give him the highest recommendation for the lady ambassador.”

A calculating look. “You could change your mind.”

Dorian’s smile dropped. “I’m afraid that is impossible. It is his mind you ought to concern yourself with.”

“I already have.”

“So you said. And if he claimed to be sincere, I can only thank you for the news. I have been hoping to hear as much.” Before Leliana could ask, Dorian quietly explained, “I never loved him…but I was not happy to hurt him, either.”

She fixed his eyes with her scrutiny, but finally declared, “That will do.” Then, her manner changing even as the dagger disappeared, she nodded to him. “My sympathies.”

“Thank you,” Dorian smiled, “but that’s quite all right.”

\--

And some time after that…

“Goodness, Inquisitor, whatever is the rush?”

Trevelyan, a bouncing mess of energy, turned back full of apologies for knocking into Dorian and sending a book or two flying. As soon as he’d replaced them in Dorian’s hands: “I’m off to Val Royeaux!” Then, leaning in to whisper excitedly: “To fight a duel! Against Josephine’s betrothed!”

Dorian smiled sincerely. “Oh, a duel? How dashing! I’ve fought several myself, but not for romance, sadly. All for drab reasons of honor and station and so on. Well, don’t let me keep you. Go, fight, and win your love!”

And Trevelyan said nothing to that. He didn’t dim in his enthusiasm, but he did pause. He looked at Dorian through his smile, and returned, and hugged him. Just for a moment—a very firm hug. Then he released Dorian, and beamed at him, and went.

\--

Epilogue

\--

When time had thus passed and things had thus changed, Dorian set himself to examine the question of what he would do about Iron Bull now. Secrecy could be dispensed with, so Dorian gave some consideration to this. He needed a good way to tell Bull he wanted to make their ongoing affair public. Communicating this properly was a delicate matter.

After careful thought, Dorian chose his moment—a completely average evening in Skyhold. Bull was in his completely usual spot in the tavern, and Dorian was completely ravishing in his completely normal clothes. Trevelyan and Josephine were in the Inquisitor’s room—as the entire Inquisition already knew, having seen them go through that particular door together.

Dorian executed his plan perfectly: he approached Bull in the tavern, half-bowed gallantly, and when Bull greeted him, he strode over, straddled the man’s lap, sank down, and kissed him.

Bull had a tankard in one hand, but he pulled Dorian closer with the other after only a moment’s surprise, and that was answer enough.

The Chargers were very nearly stunned into silence.

“I wonder,” Dorian murmured against Bull’s lips, “if you have some time tonight?”

A grin. “How long you thinking?”

“At least until dawn, if possible,” Dorian purred.

“Works for me.”

To Dorian’s immense gratification, Bull carried him upstairs in full view of the whole tavern. _Well. That was a successful conversation._

“Your men still don’t like me,” he remarked, as Bull stripped his trousers off his legs. Dorian had to hang on to keep from getting pulled too far off the edge of the bed.

“They’ll like you a lot more tomorrow,” the big oaf chuckled, shedding his own clothing and prowling closer as Dorian scooted upward to get fully onto the bed. “They thought you were a fop with a stick up your ass. You just showed them you’re not too proud for the likes of me, which makes you not too good for them, either.”

“Naturally,” Dorian answered, breathing a little hard already. He took hold of Bull’s rising cock. “I prefer _this_ in my ass, after all.”

A deep laugh. “Talk like that in front of them and they’ll get over a lot of your fancy shit.”

Dorian’s reply was delayed by a series of long, deep kisses. Then there were thick, oiled fingers inside him, and Dorian was gasping, “Do you think…they’ll ever forgive me…for being a magister?”

Bull left off sucking his nipples a moment. “You’re not a magister.”

“But I, _ahh_, will be.” Dorian raised his head to look at Bull. “As you know.”

Removing his fingers, Bull gave him a steady look. “I guess they’ll still hold a few things against you. Maybe it won’t ever be perfect. But,” he grinned, “you’re a good guy. They’ll like you enough to get over the differences.”

Dorian smiled, pushing his hips up and grinding himself against Bull’s stomach. “And yourself?”

“Me?” Bull snorted, fingers probing into him again. “I like you plenty. You little shit.”

“Good,” Dorian pronounced, rocking down on Bull’s fingers. “There may be hope for you yet. Lummox.”

Banter turned to begging, eventually. Bull liked to tease, but Dorian knew how to get the upper hand. Rolling over, face down, he raised his hips and spread his legs—he was irresistible like that, and he knew it.

Bull spread him open with his cock, slowly—it had been a while since Dorian had taken a man of this size. He’d almost forgotten how difficult it could be. Everything with Trevelyan had always gone so smoothly. With Bull, even when it didn’t hurt too much, sex required considerable brave determination at first. The battle to relax a body that was trying to tense up on reflex; the battle to push toward something that stung. It wasn’t easy at all.

But when Dorian felt Bull’s skin press against his buttocks and knew he had taken every inch—it was wonderful. He shivered with triumph.

“Damn, look at that,” Bull murmured. “You’re so good.”

“I’m…incomparable,” Dorian panted.

“Yeah…the best. This part’s all you, Dorian. Never met another guy who could take me like you do.”

A bit hazily, Dorian glanced back over his shoulder. “I get what I want,” he breathed.

Bull grinned, his voice dropping to a growl. “Spoiled brat.”

“Quite,” Dorian agreed. He tightened a little around Bull’s cock. “Fuck me.”

“Happy to,” Bull said, and gave Dorian a deep, slow thrust to start.

As Bull began to fuck into him at a steady rhythm, balls deep on every thrust, Dorian gathered magic—while he still had the ability to focus properly. The fifth time they’d fucked Dorian had shown Bull a little of what it felt like to be touched by magic fingers; now, he reached back as Bull pressed close. Bull’s tongue traced his ear for a moment before he sucked on the lobe, and Dorian caught the back of his head and held him there. Then, he sent a wave of tingling sparks flowing down Bull’s back, over his ass, ending right behind his balls.

“Fuck, _fuck!_” Bull grunted, thrusting sharply. Dorian grinned.

He did the same thing with a wave of cold, then a wave of heat that wasn’t quite fire. Each time, he made Bull lose his rhythm and ram in hard once or twice. When Dorian returned to the electric sparks, he added a little more to the spell. The tingling lingered where the spell stopped, turning into a tight little thrumming ball of energy, pulsating against Bull’s prostate. And Dorian controlled the intensity of each throb.

Bull groaned, mouthing the nape of Dorian’s neck. “Fuck, Dorian…you’re gonna make me come…”

Dorian intensified the throbbing magical energy; Bull thrust into him with each pulse. “I get…what I…want,” Dorian panted, repeating himself brokenly under the force of Bull’s powerful thrusts.

“Yeah you do,” Bull breathed. His tongue teased the little mole behind Dorian’s ear. “You want me to fill you up with it?” he growled.

“I truly…_oh_…love it when you…do, _kaffas!_”

Bull’s huge hands stroked down the front of his body. Dorian guessed where they were going and grabbed them, tight. “No.” He cleared his throat to strengthen his voice. “Don’t touch me yet. You first.”

“If you say so,” Bull rumbled, moving his hands to Dorian’s hips instead and taking a firm hold. “You can stop the magic thing,” he grunted. “I’ll get there on my own.”

Dorian huffed. “Oh, but I do so like to _make_ you lose control…”

Bull began to thrust again, steadily, pulling Dorian up a bit and changing the angle. “Believe me, big guy…you _are_.” He paused, grinding deep inside Dorian. “_Mmmm_…but you’re also setting the pace. Gotta let me do that if you want me to come.”

Dorian clutched the bedspread, twitching and jerking and groaning at the pressure of Bull’s cock inside him. “I’ll…_ohhh!_ I’ll stop making it pulse, then.”

“That works,” Bull grunted, and thrust into him again.

Whatever Dorian might have said after that was forgotten as Bull began to fuck into him—_hard_. Dorian writhed under it, but his hips didn’t shift; Bull had him locked in place, and the pounding didn’t even falter. Half mad with the intense pressure, Dorian had just begun to wonder if he was going to come without touching his cock…when Bull growled, paused, and began to shoot inside him. Sharp, hard thrusts, pausing between each one—deep inside. The hot flood of his orgasm making Dorian shiver, even as he grit his teeth. He’d been unbearably close, and now…!

It seemed like an eternity of hovering on the edge, but of course it wasn’t. Dorian thought Bull might still be coming when he shifted one hand to Dorian’s cock, wrapped it in a firm grip, and stroked him. “Oh, kaffas, Maker, _fuck!_” he shouted, tensing up. Bull felt so incredibly huge and hot inside him. Even with Bull holding still now, Dorian could feel the pressure against his best spot. He came almost at once, and he wasn’t embarrassed in the least. He was shaking, spilling into Bull’s warm, _lovely_ hand, gasping and groaning Bull’s name, over and over.

With a heavy groan, Bull dragged back, pulling out of him. “You can _really_ stop that magic thing now,” he grunted, sounding strained.

“Mm, my apologies,” Dorian mumbled blearily, releasing the spell. He was struggling to gather the coordination to shift to the side before collapsing. He did so hate to lie down in a damp mess. Bull apparently noticed his efforts and helped him to the other side of the bed, whereupon Dorian sank down with a sigh and shut his eyes. He felt Bull join him, after a moment, his hot bulk pressing against Dorian’s back—and one soft, lingering kiss pressed to his upper arm, of all places.

Dorian was quite sleepy, now, but before he could succumb, he made himself ask: “I suppose you don’t mind if we keep doing this?”

Bull laughed.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Dorian said, not waiting for Bull to actually answer, and he yawned.

“You do that”—still chuckling.

With a hum, Dorian shut his eyes—but he did not quite fall asleep yet. Bull’s huge hands stroked gently over his body, and one of them soon found its way up into his hair. Dorian felt the combing of blunt claws against his scalp, and finally drew breath and asked, “Is it still there?”

A pause, but only for a moment. “Yeah.”

Dorian hummed, then twisted onto his back and smiled up at Bull. “That’s all right. I don’t care what it says.”

Bull grinned. “Yeah…that sounds like you.” He leaned down and kissed Dorian—a little peck, a deep slide of the tongue, and another little peck, somewhat wetter. “I don’t give a shit either.”

“Good.” Dorian smirked at him. “What is fate anyway, but a divine opinion? And I’ve never cared much for the opinions of others.”

“Hey,” Bull nudged him, “we actually agree about something!”

“Oh.” Dorian blinked. “This is a first.”

“Yeah.” Bull scratched his horn. “I dunno about this. Feels weird to fuck you without fighting about something.”

Dorian levelled a serious look at his partner. “Well then, Bull, perhaps we should finally discuss those atrocities you call pants.”

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, like, I wanted to make this series a WEE bit longer, but I don't actually know much about tropes and what qualifies as one. I looked at a wiki list, lol, and I've covered all the ones that stuck out as plausible in Thedas, I think. I don't want to go too AU. But if anyone can suggest other tropes Dorian could totally be too awesome to cooperate with, I'm all ears. :)


End file.
